


The Night In Gale

by Tolpen



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Blood Bond, Books, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Don't copy to another site, False Identity, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jacksonville (Florida), Kidnapping, Lawyers gone wild, Monster Hunters, Post-Season/Series 12, Prophecy, Resurrection, Reunions, Rituals, Season/Series 15 Spoilers, Seat Belt Propaganda, Someone gets hit by a car (but they are fine), Temporal Paralysis, canon-typical idiocy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-12-09 09:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: Crowley is too busy being dead and has left Dean and Sam a bookshop in his last will.Then Bobby starts to be on the radio instead of in Heaven, the Winchesters learn of an angel whom a lot of people wanted dead and things go to Hell. Literally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Tree Full of Monkeys](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088645) by [Flammenkobold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flammenkobold/pseuds/Flammenkobold). 

> Sewerchat made me do it! Namely Jellokiel and Storm!  
Oh, also my knowledge of SPN is very scarce, I just do it for Crowley. I liked SPN!Crowley.

It most certainly is a morning and the doorbell rings.

_Like the beginning of a horror movie, _Sam thinks as he makes his way from his room to the front door. He finds a T-shirt thrown across the backrest of a chair in the kitchen and he puts it on so he doesn't have to face whoever or whatever is trying to get in this early only half dressed.

_But since my whole life is a horror movie, and not even a good one at that, this doorbell is just odd. _He braces himself for the worst and opes the door.

“Mr. Winchester, sir?” It is a bit older than middle-aged man. Dark skin, black hair. Strange British accent which TV shows taught Sam that this is what Indians living in Britain sound like. The suit is a surprise, however, and so are the polished shoes.

He slowly puts the knife back at the table besides the door. “Yes?”

The Indian gives him a bright and fake smile: “A pleasure to meet you. Mani Roysmith, Roysmith & sons, at your service. May I come in?”

Sam blinks a few times. “I am sorry if I sound a bit paranoid, but are you human?”

“Technically speaking, I suppose. I am a lawyer.”

“Oh. Well, then. Come in.”

  


Coffee is offered, mostly because Sam desperately needs one. “Well, Mr. Roysmith, what brings you here?”

The lawyer produces a creamy if a bit crumpled envelope and from it he pulls out a twice folded sheet of white paper. He passes it to Sam who takes it with caution because in Sam's experience if you don't act with caution, you should have a nice grave site picked and he hasn't picked his yet.

The paper contains a list of names produced by typewriter. There is too much space for all of them, the list doesn't even reach to the half-fold line. Mr. Roysmith quirks an eyebrow and gives a hesitant nod as he asks: “Do you know any of these people?”

“Myself, obviously,” Sam chuckles as he skims through the names. “Dean Winchester is my brother. Crowley, although it isn't all that uncommon name.”

Mr. Roysmith nearly drowns on his coffee as he is hasty to reply: “Oh, this is a very specific Mr. Crowley. For instance, no first name given ever. A Londoner, dark haired, white, rather on the short side. Although, compared to you, everyone is on the short side, I presume. Nice suits. A specific taste in whiskey. You frowned, so I think you've met him.”

“Yes, I did. Why is Fergus MacLeod there?”

A small smile. “Would you mind me explaining later?”

“As long as you explain it, sure.”

“Who else do you know?”

Sam counts on his fingers. “Robert Singer and Castiel.”

“That's all of them?”

Sam returns the paper to the lawyer. “All of them,” he confirms.

“Interesting,” Roysmith concludes. He taps his chin with the paper a few times before he disappears it back into the envelope and puts it back in his tan leather briefcase. “Very well. As to the matter of my visit and the promised explanation: Mr. Crowley, however peculiar the details are, was our company's client.”

The young man, who isn't as young as he still thinks about himself but he is still young nevertheless, flinches in his seat. To conceal it, he gets up to make another coffee. Internally he dreads what kind of mess that demon bastard has left them in and with to clean up after him.

“I would offer my condolences, but I am aware that it has been some time since he passed away. Unfortunately, it took a very long time and a very dedicated team to wrap up all his legal business. It also took very long to find you. Your address and contact changes frequently. No judgment on my side, God knows what I do to protect my family. But here I am nevertheless.”

There is a long pause as Roysmith rummages in his briefcase for a folder. That is mostly for the dramatic effect, because aside from the cream envelope, a large light blue folder and a packet of spearmint chewing gum, the case is completely empty.

“You and your brother are in Mr. Crowley's will.”

Sam very delicately does _not _scald himself with hot coffee. His face has to be a testament to his bafflement, because Roysmith continues: “Unexpected, I believe. A lot of people didn't believe he would die, let alone remember them.”

“A lot of people,” Sam needs something to distract himself with, “you mean those on the list?”

“Some of them, yes. You have to excuse my earlier manners,” Roysmith smiles again. He does that a lot. “I didn't know what name to use and I also wanted to satisfy my curiosity. Mr. Crowley had numerous aliases through his life and not every person involved with him had known all of them. For example, you are the first one to recognize the name MacLeod, well aside from that Edinburgh innkeeper. Oh, that is not related, I believe.”

A blank stare. And then: “Oh, morning Dean.”

“Good morning,” Dean hogs the coffee pot. “Who's this?”

“Mani Royshmith, Roysmith & sons, at your service Mr. Winchester, sir. I am here hegarding the matter of Mr. Crowley's last will and testament.”

Dean mouths the last four words with disbelief and then sips his coffee. “Oh,” is all he can so eloquently say.

Roysmith’s smile is patient as he says: “That is only something you see in movies and TV shows. Our company would have sent you a letter, but you have proved yourself very dificult to reach by the post. Besides, Mr. Roysmith Sr. doesn’t trust the American postal system.”

“Rather wise of him,” Dean agrees.

“I believe you want to hear what you have been left,” the lawyer reaches again into the envelope and produces a small card of a hard paper. On it is an address.

“If it’s just this card, it reads very much as something Crowley would do.“ Sam takes it and inspects it. It turns out to be a photograph when he flips it to the other side. A street-corner bookshop, rather dusty and blurry, stares right back at him from the picture.

“This is the property in question,” Roysmith confirms the suspicion. “There are a couple of legal ties with the signing of the proper papers, however. Firstly, Mr. Crowley has stated that the papers can be signed only inside this particular property. Additionally, you and any three of your successors in the ownership of this property cannot sell or gift the place or its content under any circumstances otherwise the validity of your ownership immediately and retroactively voids. This is one of the parts,” the lawyer grins like a proud shark, “that took us very long to wrap the law around. Another very interesting part is that Mr. Crowley reserved all rights to reclaim everything should he ever return.” He quirks eyebrows at them: “Do you know of any reason why he should return?”

Dean shrugs. “This is Crowley we are talking about. He always did as he pleased.”

“If he becomes bored of being dead, I suppose we’ll have him back,” Sam adds.

“Well then, gentlemen, if you don’t have any questions,” Roysmith says in a tone that states he is not expecting or answering any questions, “I really should be on my way. Please, come claim your inheritance whenever convenient. It has waited for to years, another month or two will not do it any harm, I suppose. Ah! And thank you for the coffee, Mr. Winchester, sir.”

He is seen to the door. The brothers then exchange a look. “What now?” asks Dean.

“We’ve just gotten a bookshop from which we can’t sell a single book. I don’t know, we might at least take a look at them. It’s Crowley after all. It could be basically anything, starting with, I don’t know, Nazi erotica-”

“Don’t continue, I don’t want to know where it would be _ending_,” Dean stops his brother with a hand on his shoulder.

There is a soft _poof_ in the air. It is not much of a sound and more of a feeling. It makes hair stand in attention.

“I am sorry,” Castiel, who hasn’t been there mere minutes before, speaks from behind them, “I should warn you about a lawyer coming your way.”

Sam pouts. “By any chance, would this lawyer be named Roysmith.”

The seraphim opens his mouth and his eyes dart from left to right and from right not left as his inner calculator is shredding thoughts into something comprehensible. “I see,” he says finally. “You have already met him. If that is the case, it would probably be fit if I offered to take you to London.”

“How do you know that we are going to London?” Dean’s bafflement is mostly amused rather than really surprised.

“Oh,” Castiel shows him a piece of a hard paper with an address written on it. “It seems that I have inherited my body weight in CD's and vinyl from Crowley.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers get the bookshop and it seems to be a bit more than they wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave the first chapter to read to my boyfriend and also to his brother. They liked it.  
I tried to write this whole story in an absolutely trashy style of fanfics because if I take this seriously, I won't be able to finish this at all. I have been told that I failed. In the trash-manner of writing, that is. Let's hope I won't fail on the finishing bit.

Angel Airlines could be more comfortable if it had cushions and a mid-flight snack time. As it is, it has no such a thing and doesn't even call itself Angel Airlines, but at least Castiel has decided to show enough emotion to sigh heavily every time anyone in his presence decides to call angel-travel that. They arrive to London the next morning. Although from their point of view it has been only five hours since Mr. Roysmith visited them.

“Time zones are a human way to imitate your fancy time travel,” Sam nudges Castiel as they navigate crowded streets. Castiel does not dignify him with a response.

Instead he says: “Everything in this city is either black or white or brown or red. I find it aesthetically displeasing.”

“You know something about aesthetics?”

“I have spent too much time on Earth. Part of that time as a human. Your state of being is contagious, it seems. Besides, the house plumbing is done on the outside, not even you can find it appealing, Dean.”

Dean is too occupied with thinking how many pranks had gone wrong and a plumber had to be called to agree with Castiel, but otherwise he'd agree with him.

“Is this it?” Sam asks after a while of walking and looking around. It is a stupid question and he knows it. It indeed is it. It looks just like the picture, except the colors are a bit more faded and the displaying windows more dusty and there is no light inside.

The bookshop bears the name _A. Z. Fell & Co. _although the letters _& Co._ part had come off at some point and now there is only not-yet-faded green paint which was previously underneath, so the full name can be only made out if you trace the empty spaces and imagine what is supposed to be there. In front of the bookshop are two ladies of brown skin and black hair, both young. One has a pantsuit, the other has round glasses.

“You must be the Winchesters and Mr. Castiel, I presume,” the pantsuit one smiles at them brightly and extends her hand. “Kamilah Roysmith, Roysmith & sons, at your service. I have received your message and I am very pleased to meet you. I did not expect to see you this soon after Mani had finally contacted you, but the surprise is a most pleasant one.”

Dean blinks a few times. “Perhaps I have misunderstood, but I thought your company sayd Roysmith & _sons..._?” He lets the question mark hang in the air.

Kamilah apparently gets that question a lot, because she just waves her hand in a dismissive manner: “The company is old. Our policies and approach have been updated, our name hasn't. If you have a complaint about it, I suggest you reach to the head of the company, Dr. Diana Roysmith.”

“Point taken, no complaints,” Dean backs out with his hands raised. “And I am afraid we haven't been introduced, miss. Dean Winchester, this is my brother, Sam, and this is Castiel.”

The woman with glasses eyes the three of them, Castiel the longest of all, before she speaks: “Anathema Device, very charmed to meet you, gentlemen.” Her accent is the most generic American accent you could have ever heard.

“Miss Device,” Kamilah jumps in, “is here also in the matters of inheritance. Mr. Fell has left her his apartment-”

“Yes, I have been meaning to ask,” Sam interrupts her rather rudely, “just who is Mr. Fell?”

Kamilah clicks her tongue. “Right. You have known him as Mr. Crowley. He used both names very frequently. If you wouldn't mind, we'd go inside?”

They do not mind, and so Kamilah unlocks the door and they enter. The bookshop is rather spacious and dusty and quite predictably full of books and old robust furniture.

They make their way to the back where they sit down on a sofa. Anathema is moving slowly, brushing her fingers over book spines and table edges and door frames. There is sadness to it. She has been here before, most likely, back in the day when Crowley ran the place. Neither Sam or Dean can imagine Crowley running a bookshop in London. Bashing someone's skull to porridge with a Bible, that's more like him.

Kamilah hands all four of them thick light blue folders and gives them enough time to read through them. “If you have any questions, I am here for you.”

Anathema has several questions, mainly about taxes, which had been taken care of, and the lay-out of the apartment in Mayfair which is coming into her possession. Kamilah provides her with a map and a bunch of architect papers nobody but Anathema actually understands.

While she is busy examining them with a very fancy steel ruler, Castiel slowly rises his hand. It takes another two or three minutes for Kamilah to notice him. “It says here that the musical recordings are found both here and in the apartment Miss Device is becoming the owner of. Am I allowed to take them out of these places?”

“Yes,” Kamilah nods. “They are exceptions from the Burden of Unseparation, as we have taken to call it. The last five pages give you the full inventory.”

Castiel nods and looks at them. He looks puzzled for a moment and then he speaks again: “Excuse me, I don't seem to be understanding the problem with the car.”

The lawyer sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose. “Oh yes, the car. I am very embarrassed to say this. Mr. Castiel, our client in his will stated that should the car be ever found, you are to be recognized as its owner. We have the paperwork drawn out and everything, but there is... The car in question is not... It does not exist.” She pauses for a moment. “No, that came out wrong. It does exist, according to all papers connected to it, except on the physical level. We assume it was stolen, but no charges were pressed. There is a photograph documentation, the vehicle registration plate, even Mr. Crowley's driver's license, which has expired long time ago before his passing.”

By this point everyone is staring at her. “We are actively searching for it, of course, but from the way the last will was written, our company has come to the conclusion that at the moment of its writing, which was four years ago, Mr. Crowley... did not physically have the car. To put it bluntly, if you see a black 1926 Bentley, there is a high probability it's yours and perhaps you should contact us. All documentation or at least the copy of it is included in your file.”

Castiel simply nods.

The men sign the papers. Miss Device has to do so in the apartment in Mayfair due to legal obligations, and Castiel offers to accompany her and Ms. Roysmith there, as he has more than a half of the CD's and vinyls to collect there. “I'll be back in a couple of hours to take you back,” he promises to the brothers.

Dean and Sam first wander into the nearest restaurant to get some food because God knows they are hungry. It's a sushi restaurant and the chopsticks are very tricky and they pay with credit because English restaurants don't view American dollars as real money.

Then they return to the bookshop because they decide that if Crowley has a hoard of something, then it is worth of exploring. “A bookshop from which you cannot sell books is a collection and hoard,” Sam explains to Dean while he is trying to get seaweed and rice from his T-shirt collar.

The first thing they do once they come back is this: they turn the lights on. Sam takes the duster and Dean finds a broom in the little kitchenette attached to the back of the shop. They begin to clean the layers of dust and spiderwebs. It is methodical. Dean finds himself crying because against all odds, suddenly he is aware that this means it is over. Crowley is gone, he won't come back. And the demon anticipated it. He was prepared to leave them behind.

He moves the rug to sweep under it and take it our for proper dusting. He freezes.

“Sammy?”

“Yes?” Sam peeks from above the stairs. “What do you want- Oh! Alright, I don't recognize this one. What is that?”

“I don't know,” Dean shakes his head and looks at the circular chalk drawing on the floorboards. It is partly smudged. “It doesn't look like a demon trap, though. I suggest we don't touch it.”

“Very reasonable,” Sam agrees. “Have you found anything else that is interesting?”

Dean only shakes his head, but then he smiles: “Oh, I have just now. A whole bookshelf of Bibles.”

“So he probably did smash someone's brain to pieces with a Bible! I knew it!” Sam takes the stairs down by two at the time and ends up with a dizzy head because the staircase is the spiral kind. “Or on the second thought, they look far too good for that. He took a very good care of them.”

“A demon who collects Bibles?”

“A demon who sacrifices himself to seal Lucifer?”

“A demon who listens to Queen?”

“Hi, Castiel,” the Winchesters say in unison and don't even bother turning around.

There is a thud as the angel lets down a very heavy sounding box. He looks from behind Dean at the chalk drawing. “How odd,” he says.

“Yes, we have been just pondering. I have never even seen anything like this,” Sam taps his foot on the floor right next to the circle. “I recognize the writing as Hebrew, though I admit I can't read it and-”

“That is not what I meant. This is an angelic work.”

The brothers turn to Castiel wide-eyed. “What?” Dean manages.

“This is an angel's circle. It serves to contact Heaven,” Castiel explains. “Theoreticaly Crowley shouldn't know what an angel's circle looks like, but he knew a lot of things he was not supposed to know. But there is no way a demon would be able to draw it.”

“So an angel had to do it,” Dean concludes as he rummages among the bookshelves. Castiel nods.

Sam frowns: “You think Crowley forced an angel to draw it for him?”

“I don't think Crowley had any desire to talk to Heaven at any point of his life. Or if he had, he would have use me,” Castiel shakes his head.

“Fine, so we have an angel land-line in a bookshop. Safe to assume it belonged to him. Or her. An angel with a bookshop. Well, it certainly explains all the Bibles. I wonder what happened to that poor fellow,” Sam ponders out loud as his fingers trace the floor next to the angel's circle. There are empty spots, places to put in candles, he realizes. At the back of his mind he can hear whisper-like screams and raging of fire.

“I don't think we have to wonder that for too long,” Dean says, his voice flat.

He turns to them with a glass case in his hand. In it lays a single white feather. It glows dimly, like stars. Its root is covered with blood dried black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed me comments? Please? Give me the sweet sweet validation?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Crowley an angel murdering bastard? Join the Winchester brothers in this investigation!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing with Agnes Nutter's prophecies: I am not a native English speaker and I can't do convincing Ye Olde English text. So I found this superb site and because I'm a kind author, I share with you: [ English to Shakespearian ](https://lingojam.com/EnglishtoShakespearean) So instead of 17th centruy English I'm using Shakespearian here, but hey, that's a free additional century or two in the translation!

Further investigations bring out to light another additional angelic matters. Angel blades for one. There are three of them. Each member of the makeshift What The Fuck Was Wrong With Crowley Team is holding one in his hand and is inspecting it, but they all know they are more reflecting on their past memories rather than actually studying the blade.

There aren't any more feathers, but there is a white mug with wings instead of the usual ear-shaped holder. Searching the bedroom has brought to daylight very carefully put away golden cuff links and a ring placed alongside broken sunglasses..

“These has to be the ugliest things to be ever worn by a man,” Sam mutters as he has finally put the blade down and is now focusing on their bedroom finds.

“Which one do you mean?” Dean asks with his mouth half full of a sandwich. They've gotten bacon sandwiches from Tesco, because it's been some times and from all the cleaning and investigating they've gone hungry. Well, Dean has, Sam isn't minding a snack and Castiel is suspicious of the fried egg between the breads, but he made the trip to the nearest Tesco all by himself like a human, bought the sandwiches, like a human, went back, also like a human, so he was now hellbent on finishing this ordeal like a human all the way, eating the strange sandwich with egg and bacon included.

Absent-minded Sam tries the ring on. It is also shaped like wings closing together and they don't give way to Sam's fingers easily – his hands are simply too large. Eventually he makes it on his right pinky where it is sort of stuck and won't go down without the help of cold water. He plays it cool, though.

There is a sudden knock on the door. They exchange glances and because Dean is the closest, he goes to get the door.

“I am terribly sorry,” he starts his prepared litany, “we are very closeeeeeh, hello again, Miss Device. Uh... what can I do for you? Don't you want to come in? It's raining cats and dogs out here.”

“Oh, it's just a mild drizzle,” says Anathema, but she enters nevertheless, wringing her hair somewhat drier and wiping the raindrops off her glasses.

“We'd offer you tea, but I am afraid that all that is here is cacao,” Sam offers.

“That'd be very kind of you, Mr. Winchester.”

“It's just Sam,” he smiles at her and makes his way to the kitchenette.

Meanwhile Castiel stands there a bit out of place like a poorly carved saint and behind his back he is holding three angel blades. He carefully places them in an empty spot on a bookshelf.

“I just though,” Anathema sits down in an armchair, “that I would check on you, how you are doing. I know, I basically don't know you, but you had to be very close to Mr. Fell. Crowley. Castiel said you knew him as Crowley.” She smiles weakly and continues: “So I thought that I should see if I could do anything for you. Help, maybe. He wouldn't entrust his books to just anyone, I know that.”

“Well, we didn't really... We didn't really know him. Not well, anyway,” Sam tried as he pressed a mug of cacao into her hands. He made a mug for everyone, even himself. They all could use something warm to drink.

Anathema chuckles: “Oh, neither did I, really, but I think we were... the closest people he had.” She frowns for a moment. “He had a friend, I think. Hm, but they had to have a falling out. I don't know. Probably just a colleague. Certainly they weren't included in the will. Hmm...” Her voice trails out as her frown deepens in thoughts. Then she shakes her head. “Not like it is important. He would have mentioned if it was important. Although, he has never mentioned you.”

“We didn't know about you either,” Dead's mouth twists into a smile despite itself. “Castiel, come get your cacao, it'll do you good.”

No response.

Dean turns around to see Castiel staring right in front of himself, nose a few inches away from the bookshelves. “Castiel?” he tries again.

The angel slowly turns around and points an accusing finger at the place he was staring at: “There is a book missing,” he exclaims in a grave voice, as if he was announcing the next Apocalypse.

Anathema gasps quietly and nearly spills her cacao all over herself, but the gravity of the information escapes both Winchesters like a ghost on a stormy night. Castiel has to explain: “This place contains tomes from the floor to the ceiling. There is not empty space with the exception of this bookshelf.”

“This is the prophecy section, isn't it?” Anathema gets up to examine the bookshelf. “Mother Shipton, Nostradamus, yes, this is the prophecy section. Mr. Fell really prided his collection, first edition, all of them. Look at it here, this one is the one I gave him, of course it is no longer actual,” she smiles warmly and takes out the book right next to the empty spot. It's cover and pages are in a mildly charcoal condition and pieces of it hold together due to an unholy amount of duct tape and resin.

She cuddles the book like a baby before putting it back. She smiles apologetically: “My ancestor wrote it, it should contain all the time until the end of the world. _True _prophecies, all of them. She wrote even a second one for the time to come, the Further Prophecies. I burned the manuscript which I got, for, um, reasons. But unknown to me, Mr. Fell got a_ copy_ of it.” Anathema sits back down.

“You are saying there is a book describing the future somewhere in here?” Dean is both afraid and excited about the answer.

“No,” Anathema shakes her head. “It's gone missing. By all means, it should be there on the shelf, right next to the first one. But Mr. Fell had admitted to me that it is gone.”

“Someone stole it?” Sam asks in a worried tone.

Anathema disagrees. “No. No one would dare to steal from Mr. Fell. Not from this bookshop. He told me about it some time after the incident.”

“Hold you horses, madam. What incident?” Now everyone is staring at her but Dean is used to be baffled enough to keep asking questions.

Anathema leaves shortly after finishing her coffee and the two hunters and one seraphim are trying to picture the history of this place from what she's had told them. It is like puzzle, but all that Anathema had were the pieces with sky. They themselves have some corners and the piece in the middle where there is grass and a horse behind.

This place previously belonged to an angel and Crowley got it from him not many years ago and whatever happened to the previous owner, it was bad.

The incident, as Anathema called it, was a fight between a powerful supernatural being, either a demon or an angel, and Crowley. Crowley won at a terrible cost and during that time the book Further Nice and Acurrate Prophecies has gone missing. Anathema has described it that Mr. Fell was attacked and that ever since then he was more irritable and angry.

“We see where this goes: Miss Device knew an angel calling himself Agne Zira Fell,” Sam sums up what they deduced, “then Crowley wanted his book of true prophecies and they fought. Crowley killed Fell and in the process the book got destroyed. He then stole Fell's identity and pretended to be an angel here in London.”

“You know, and here I was for five minutes thinking he wasn't an absolute bastard,” Dean locks the front door of the shop and puts the key into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Naïve,” Castiel mumbles as he once again checks the rather large crate of CD's and vinyls. The he turns to the brothers: “Would you two be alright if I leave these with you at your home? I have to place to store it,” he adds as a way of explanation.

“Maybe they are magical records,” Sam suggests jokingly, “so maybe we should put them in Bobby's bunker. Besides, we never know when we have to move, so they'll be more safe there and nobody will forget them in places.”

The one Bobby Singer, when asked about it, gives them a weary face: “Boys, it's three in the morning and technically speaking it's not my bunker. I don't give a half-damned bollocks.”

“I suppose that's what we get from dragging people in here from warfare alternator realities,” Dean sighs as he opens the door to the bunker. Bobby in his pajamas shoots him a look that would be a very deadly projectile of Bobby was a shotgun.

Castiel is carrying his inherited collection of music with a deadpan and very pointedly does not say that for the last time, Sam, it's not called Angel Airlines, and maybe we should check the time zone difference so we wouldn't appear from afternoon London to too-early-in-the-morning Bobby's. Castiel has learned that nobody pays attention to such logical remarks so he doesn't waste breathing time on them.

Once inside, he sets the crate on the floor in the far corner of the bunker. It's accompanied by a loud thud. “That has to be heavy,” Bobby remarks. “What's it?”

“A collection of music recordings I've inherited from Crowley.”

“From the demon?” Bobby makes a surprised face and then does the “oh okay then” nod. “Any good music at least?”

Castiel squats down next to the crate: “_Queen, Queen, Queen,_” he says as he takes out stacks of CD's, “_Velvet Underground, Queen, _Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye, _The Temptations,_ more _Queen, Earth, Wind, & Fire,_ Stevie Wonder, _The Door, The Knight Brothers,_ Dean could you explain what is so funny about it?” he demands to know without changing his tone.

It takes a moment for Dean to stop snickering so he can say: “Half of that is soul music. Get it? A _demon_ who loves _soul._”

Sam scoffs. Bobby is too grumpy for being dragged out of his bed to really listen. Castiel rolls his eyes to show that he appreciates the joke.

“There is something written on the back,” says Castiel when he gets to the vinyls. He checks the back of the CD's as well. “And on these too.”

“What does it say?” Sam asks.

“Can I _finally _go to bed?”

“Yes, Bobby, sorry,” Dean raises his hands, “we promise we won't blow it up in here. Not before asking your permission first, anyway.”

“Good.” Bobby leaves then in the bunker, but not before he confiscates a bottle of cheap IPA standing in the fridge by the door.

“What do they say?” Sam asks again.

Castiel picks up a CD, _The Best of Queen (Remaster),_ and reads: “4291: At which hour the earth's blood is spilled, the sir of song shalt cross the bridge of mercury from heaven to his other corse and that gent bringeth fyre.”

They exchange bleak looks before Dean says: “Sounds fake.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brothers go back to business and listen to Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life hack for beginning writers: Problems with writing transition scenes? Don't write transition scenes! Make a pause for a commercial!

There isn't much to do after that. Castiel is sort of busy in Heaven and has to leave. He is very dodgy on the subject, but apparently things have been in a poor condition since the flood and Cas is the first to finally strike the heart of the matter and don't you boys give me the side eye, I just asked him the fuck is going on, is all! Bobby gets all defensive when Sam asks him how did he manage to understand all that from the vague answers Castiel has given them

At least the angel was kind enough to realize he is never going to listen to any of the music he's brought with him from London, and thus he agreed to let Dean borrow it for the long rides in the Impala. “As long as it is not gifting, it should be alright by the law,” he had explained to them just before he left, which was about twelve minutes ago.

Nine minutes ago Bobby got a phone call which lasted exactly forty seconds. He picked it up and said: “Bobby Singer. Yes, hi.” Then there was a twenty second pause and: “You crazy. Bloody not. Fine, I'll get you the best people on it. Bye.” That was followed by the other person hanging up and Bobby, with the phone still in his hand and close to ear, turned to the brothers and said: “So apparently there is the Bigfoot in Jacksonville, Florida. I would let it go, I mean this is the Bigfoot and we are talking about Florida, but whatever it was, is stomped three cars flat. One of them was a truck. Not to mention it squished some alligators.”

“One day you stop the Apocalypse...”

“The other day you hunt down Bigfoot,” Sam finishes for his brother.

They leave in search for salt (everywhere) and weaponry (every place that is not full of salt). Dean takes the advantage and takes a handful of the Queen CD's. He'd go for Led Zeppelin and Bach, but while the Impala is a good precious car, she isn't all-mighty and cannot play vinyls. So with the trunk full of salt, knives, shotguns, sandalwood and dried rosemary and the front full of Sam, Dean and a stack of CD's they embark on the way.

Sam is asked to handle the music while Dead drives. “Why is two thirds of that _The Best Of Queen_?” he asks while he picks one of the mentioned records and shoves it in. They are greeted by Freddie Mercury opening with _Bohemian Rhapsody_.

“I just took the first handful from the top, don't judge me. If you have to judge anyone, then it should be Crowley.”

“I've already done it,” Sam taps his knee along the music, “and he's guilty as charged.”

“Terribly, terribly guilty.”

“Well, he was a terrible man.”

Dean agrees: “And a demon.”

“He killed an angel.”

“To be fair, so did we. More or less.”

“I love how you had to add 'more or less.' As if you weren't sure about that,” Sam grins. They burst out laughing after that and then they try to sing along the Bohemian Rhapsody which goes poorly, because they both are trying to sing all the parts.

The business in Jacksonville goes as the business usually goes. Bobby's contact is a stout Jamaican immigrant with a resolute voice, solid cooking and a spare bedroom, so Sam and Dean crash her place while they are on it. She urges them to get it moving, because squished cars and stoned people are bad for her gas station business.

Sam decides to check on the witnesses.

“I warn ye boy, dem be stoned like no oddah' shit,” Jess, as the woman has introduced herself, warns them.

“Let me assure you, madam, we are more than prepared and equipped to deal with junkies.” He couldn't be more wrong.

Well, technically speaking, Sam wasn't mistaken. The problem is the people aren't drug users. As Dean sums it up while knocking one of the boy behind the parking lot on the forehead: “I expected marijuana, not marble.”

Meanwhile Sam is already on the phone with Bobby: “Yes, I am terribly sorry. No, I didn't know they are reprising the show, we should get watching it together when we are back. I don't think that our- I mean the old Bobby liked it. No, no, nothing like that, no problem. I just need to know how do I easily spot the difference between a basilisk and a gorgon?”

Dean searches his bagpack for a snack. Jess has been very generous and gave them a tupperware full of “something light to eat.” It turns out to be curry so spicy it could burn straight through a demon's throat. After a brief consideration and at least a gallon of water, Dean decides that he is not hungry yet.

“Yes, I know that. Bu right now I am staring at a bunch of statues. Is there a way to find out from them? Uh, above, I think. OK, thank you. Bobby, you're priceless, has anyone ever told you? Yea, well, you're worth repeating it. Have fun with _The Golden Girls!_”

Strictly breathing through his mouth to cool it down, Dean waits for Sam to finish the call and then simply asks: “Well?”

“It's most likely a basilisk,” Sam shrugs.

“And Bobby knows that because the statues are staring above themselves??” He looks at the five stone people. Nothing that would imply to him that it was a basilisk, besides the fact they are a piece of marble.

“Basilisks towers over its prey. Medusa is human-sized. If they were looking at it and it had eyes on their eye-level, it was as tall as a human. This was bigger. And it flattened a truck with its body, so it's more likely a basilisk.” Sam produces a chewing gum out of a pocket and offers a piece to Dean.

He takes the chewing gum and adds: “Or a really fat gorgon, no bestiary ever tells you that. Do you think the supernatural community has a body positivity movement? Bobby is quite the Sherlock anyway. We'd be dead without him. So let's get a big mirror, shall we?”

And thus they proceed to hunt down a gigantic snake at which they cannot look lest they'd want to be turned to a stone. They make it, but Jess could be more happy about it.

“I don't know why she minded so much! We solved her problem, we even made an antidote for all those paralyzed people so she hasn't got her gas station full of marble-like customers. What's her problem?” Dean mutters through gritted teeth as they are hauled into their car without even a dinner.

“I think,” Sam waves with a forced smile out of the window, “that what really got her was that you used her daughter as a lure.”

“But Amalka is a snake charmer! What else were we supposed to do?”

“I don't know, learn a flute?”

“Acknowledge you should not endanger children?”

“Hi, Castiel,” the brothers sigh and Sam turns around to the back seat and adds: “Please use the seat belt, local drivers are crazy and most of the times high. Yesterday we've got nearly ran over by an alligator on a pedestrian crossing.”

Casatiel blinks and frowns. “By... an alligator?”

“Yeah, no shit. Who even let it behind the steering wheel. Does Florida let alligators to get a driving license?”

The seraphim remains silent and wonders how much alcohol is he going to need to understand or at least bear with the absurdity of the Earth. There was something appealing on Lucifer's goal of destroying this world. On the other hand, if there was no earth, there wouldn't be any pizza and a life without pizza would be unbearable.

When the silence becomes unbearable, the angel decides to address the sticky jars that are bumping into his ankles whenever the car hits a pothole, which is often because state roads have a small budget. “What is this?”

“Basilisk blood,” Sam answers. “It can be distilled into a potent all-purpose antidote, which is why we took so much of it. Or aphrodisiac. That's not our prime goal, but it's a neat bonus.”

“And this?”

“The beast's teeth,” the other brother grins.

“We thought they looked rather cool. They are going to look wicked above the fireplace.”

“You _don't have_ a fireplace.”

“The bookshop has one. Anyway, Sam, what's our prophecy of today?” Dean asks.

Sam's hand slips into the glove compartment and pulls out a thin plastic box: “_429: Injecteth thy offspring with the serum of deceased beshrew lest those folk becometh prey to the pox!_ That means that our immediate future will be filled with Bohemian Rhapsody.” He inserts the CD in the radio.

“Odd,” states Dean after a moment, “I don't hear anything. Have you checked if it's not scratched or anything?”

“Dean?” The raspy breath comes from the radio. “Dean, is that you?”

Dean hits the brakes so fast that if Castiel wasn't wearing the seat belt as instructed, he'd end up flat on the windshield. If Dean weren't to hit the brakes, there was a serious danger he'd drive off the road into the swamp, because he can't focus on driving, that's how much he's thrown off.

“Dean, are you there?” the radio demands to know in disbelief.

The three men in the car shriek all at the same time: “Bobby?!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That chapter with ghost on a radio and some thoughts on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realized that it's easy to write in this style. Like, so so easy when I'm not trying to be overly smart with words. I write much faster like this.

“Bobby, where are you?” Sam asks very cautiously.

There is a bit of static and then Bobby says: “I am in Heaven. It's nice in here.” Castiel stares at the radio as thought it offended him on some personal level. To be fair to Castiel, it did exactly just that.

Dean interrogates, just as cautiously: “What are you doing in Heavem?”

“You oafs have sent me here in the first place. I'm sort of bored, but not in a bad way.”

They exchange looks as realization dawns upon them. The running text on the radio display informs them helpfully that they are now listening to Fat Bottomed Girls (Track 02). Then Sam and Dean gasp simultaneously as the equivalent of a light bulb turning on above their heads.

“You are _our _Bobby,” Dean whispers in disbelief.

The radio has to have a very good reception because it sands back Bobby's snapping: “What other Bobby would I be?”

“I acknowledge it's rhetoric question but we, uh, sort of got one from an alternate reality,” Sam says a bit apologetically. “He sort of had nowhere else to go and hands down, we had no idea what to do without you.”

More static. “Well, I thought it a bit odd when you didn't show up right after me, but I thought somebody was was watching after you. Heh, I suppose there actually is someone babysitting you now, boys.”

“There was a period when we were left to our own devices,” Dean protests.

“And we screwed up multiple times,” Sam adds. Dean smacks his head in return with a hiss that Bobby doesn't need to know that, I'm trying to seem competent here

Castiel is still staring, his frown deepens.

“I miss you boys. But I am happy to hear,” Bobby's voice cracks, “that you're doing just fine. I don't know how it is you can talk to me, but I'm grateful for that.”

“We miss you too, Bobby.”

“You've got the other one.”

“Yes,” Sam nods, despite that Bobby cannot see him, or so he presumes, “but he is not you. You know us. He, well, he sort of picked us up on the go, we don't share any history. He's grumpy and snarky and smart and knows everything, but he's not _you_.”

“Ah,” Bobby's voice is touched, “don't get me all emotional. I shouldn't be crying here. Anyway, I'm _good old fashioned lover boy._” The radio breaks into a song and Bobby's voice flows smoothly into Freddie Mercury's.

“Well. That certainly was... something,” Dean concludes.

Still with the deep frown and the suspicion aimed at the radio, Castiel very slowly speaks: “_ At which hour the earth's blood is spilled, the sir of song shalt cross the bridge of mercury from heaven to his other corse and that gent bringeth fyre_.”

“And how exactly is that relevant?” Sam turns to Castiel sharply. Dean revs the engine and they get back on the road because it's going to be a long way home.

“It is a prophecy, Samuel,” the seraphim explains patiently. “Crowley might have lost the Further Prophecies, but the CD's have them written on the back. I suspect it is incomplete collection but it is at least three hundreds of them.” He takes a deep breath: “I wasn't given musical recordings, I was given_ prophecies._”

Sam, his head still turned in a spine-breaking angle, gives him a suspicious look. “And why exactly are you so sure they are the _Further Prophecies?_”

Castiel sighs deeply: “I have contacted Anathema Device because I knew you'd be clueless and I needed an outsider's – a human's – perspective. She recognized Agnes Nutter's style in an instant. _2001: Thee shall knoweth mine own nameth, Anathema, at which hour the messenger of the Lord cometh to thee bearing this letter did inscribe on a wheel of iron._” He takes a shaky breath as he bows his head and rests it in hands, elbows propped on his knees. “Considered that she doesn't recognize these prophecies means they are the_ Further, _describing the world yet to come. But Anathema Device refuses any more guidance and manipulation from her ancestor, and she refused to help me. Deciphering the prophecies is... Not an easy work.”

“But the one you've just said... You've got it?” Sam's eyebrows has hit his hairline multiple times during Castiel's explanation and so now he has to rub his forehead to check for the damage.

“Yes.”

When there is another minute of silence, Dean finally says: “We're waiting. Share with the class, Castiel.”

“You don't want to know. You really, really don't want to know,” Castiel repeats the sentence with a chuckle, which scares Dean enough to nearly hit the car in the other lane and he swerves the steering wheel at the very last moment.

As Sam picks himself up from the window, he demands: “Spill it out.”

“Fine. The Bobby from alternative reality is going to die. There will be a gas leak and Bobby's soul will descend from Heaven through a played recording of Queen and possesses the alternate Bobby's body which will ignite the leaked gas.”

“Sounds very fake.”

“I told you that you didn't want to know, Samuel.”

“How,” Dean slaps the steering wheel to add some weight to his question, “did you get all of that out of that weird-ass old English prophecy.”

“It's not Old English, Dean, it's Early Modern,” mumbles Sam who has spent some time in college. Granted, he was a law major and he ha dropped out, but he had some English history. His sharing of knowledge is rewarded with a bitter words of whatever from a man who barely finished high school.

Castiel pretends the argument hasn't just happened and explains with heavenly patience: “Earth's blood or the blood of Peter are both terms used to reference petrol, respectively gas. The man of song can be said differently as singer and bobby's name is Robert _Singer_. The descend from Heaven is said plainly enough, but it wouldn't click for me if Bobby didn't talk to you over a song sung by _Mercury._”

There is another long silence. It starts to rain outside, at first a few drops, then a mild drizzle which turns into a downright torrential pouring. So the silence is filled by Another One Bites The Dust and raindrops.

And then: “Agnes Nutter would have made a fortune if she had been making crosswords.” That is Sam, staring out of the window, imagining a monstrous carnivorous deer running alongside the car.

Castiel hums in agreement: “Anathema has said the exact same thing.”

“She is a smart girl, this Anathema,” says Dean, just to change the topic.

“Yes. Brother dear, don't try to date her, just so we are sure she doesn't turn out to be evil.”

“And just what are you trying to say by that?”

“Nothing!” Sam raises hands defensively and trying to play it cool he pushes a loose strand of hair out of his face and behind the ear. It doesn't stay there for long. “But we are trouble magnets by design, not even you could have missed certain recurring themes through our lives. Don't date women if you don't want to get cruelly stabbed in the back by them.”

“Sammy Winchester, the sole reason I am not going to kick straight through your kneecap is because I need both my feet to drive this car.”

“Oh, you wouldn't do that, you love me too much for that. Almost as if we were a family,” Sam teases.

Castiel, who has leaned far back in his seat and is now buried in the cushioning and basilisk teeth, groans: “I am fortunate that my brothers and sisters never felt strongly towards me or each other. For the most of my existence I was spared this manner of banter.”

“Yes, Castiel, but your siblings are... uh, they are”

“Absolute jackasses,” Dean fills. “Complete morons, total buffoons and peak cretins.”

“Well, most of them,” Castiel admits.

Sam's eyebrows once again hit his hairline which by this point has had enough of that and has decided in that very moment to move out of reach, resulting in a significant hair-loss twenty years from now. “_Most _of them?” He cannot believe what he is hearing. “There are exceptions?”

“Yes. There angels who are nice, kind and devoted to helping humanity, not just the ones who claim that they are like that.”

Dean scoffs: “Are there really?” He isn't convinced. In fact, he is absolutely certain that Castiel cannot prove it: “Let's see; name one.”

The angel is silent for a long time as he rakes through his memory and during that time Dean's smirk grows into a shit-eating grin. It disappears as soon as Castiel says: “Aziraphale.”

“Who?”

“Principality Aziraphale. You haven't met him.”

“You should introduce us some day,” Sam murmurs. “It would be nice to meet an angel who means well for us for once. Besides you, I mean,” he adds hastily in case Castiel wanted to take offense which he doesn't and Sam cannot know because he is not telepathic in nature.

Castiel shrugs. “If I can find him, I will.” He sees the way Dean is looking at him in the rear mirror and so he explains: “He went missing soon after the second Apocalypse.”

“Shame,” Sam's enthusiasm disappears like the steam over a cooling pot. Another spot of a long, barely comfortable silence before he says: “Let's not tell Bobby about the prophecy. Dean, what the fuck are you doing? You nearly hit that tree!”

“Sorry. Castiel?”

“Yes?”

“What do you mean, the _second_ Apocalypse?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys it's my birthday, gimme them comments!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel tells the Winchesters about the first Apocalypse, Aziraphale and a previously omitted detail regarding the Angel Blades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that this is marked as the Good Omens (TV Series) work, but if your only source of GO knowledge is the show, you are going to find subtle disagreements with it, but those are book compliant. For example, the setting of the GO Armaggedon't (the first Apocalypse, as Castiel calls it) didn't happen around 2019 (as the show suggests) but in the 1990's (as the book has it). On the other hand, not to be completely unfair, plenty of the descriptions and facts from the show has made it here - the entirety of Anathema, to name one.  
I'd like to put it like this: I took everything I loved about the show and shoved it into the book settings, because why not to have the best of the two worlds?
> 
> (To all Good Omens TV series lovers: It's not that I hate the show. The show is good. It just so happens that for me the book is the one and only.)

Castiel promises an explanation once they get out of the car because if Dean killed them by being so overwhelmed that he'd forget he's driving 80 mph on a wet interstate highway with a solid chance of alligators, it'd look pretty bad on the angel's resume. They stop at a gas station for some gas and suspicious baguettes. So they are munching baguettes which taste like cheese and mayo despite containing neither.

“Aziraphale,” Dean reminds to Castiel with his mouth half-full. “We're all ears.

Castiel focuses his eyes on the table and takes a deep breath. Whatever it is he is about to say, he needs to brace himself. “Principality Aziraphale worked under Archangel Gabriel as one of the few angels who almost permanently resided on Earth and didn't dwell in Heaven.”

Sam stops him: “What does it mean when an angel is a Principality?”

“The hierarchy of Heaven is not exactly easy to explain to mortals in a mortal language, but the best explanation I can offer to you is that it is a military position. A captain, if you will. Principalities were originally created as warriors. The original users of the angel blades, capable of utilizing its full potential.” Castiel's blank look is a facade, because he is hoping that answerign the question as directly and quickly as possible will prevent the Winchesters to think about the meaning too much. He is wrong, of course.

“What _full _potential?” Dean demands to know.

“And more importantly, are you implying that those blades have all been stolen from the Principalities?” Sam asks in a quick succession.

“Do you remember the archangel blades?” Sam confirms that they do, so Castiel elaborates: “Those are an attempt to imitate the true potential of the Principalities, although the result is very weak. Principalities contain large power, but they have almost no way of using it on their own. Their equipment is essential. A lot of them...” His voice breaks and he takes a pause to recollect himself. “A lot of them didn't make it out of the Rebellion. They either Fell, were killed or their mind couldn't take the strain and went insane and had to be... eliminated. Their angel blades were taken afterwards. In the hand of a Principality, the angel blade burns a bright fire as the Principality's power flows through it. They are even capable of charging the blades with their power.”

“So in fact the angel blades are angel batteries.”

Castiel very pointedly does not roll his eyes. “If you want to really simplify it like that, Samuel, then yes.”

“We've got sidetracked, though,” Dean points out. “As interesting as it is and as much as I think we should have known that much sooner –”

“It was not of any relevance until now.”

“– we asked about Aziraphale and the Apocalypses, plural.”

“Yes. The first Apocalypse... It did not, in fact, happen. The son of the Great Adversary, the Antichrist... He was a boy, eleven years of age when he came unto his powers. He was supposed to be influenced by demons during his formative years, but Hell lost track of him, and so did Heaven for the record. The Antichrist grew up among the humans to their image, and when he was to destroy the world and ignite the war, he...” Castiel pauses and frowns. His eagerly listening companions cannot tell if he is just taking the piss and doing it for the drama, or if he juts really has a trouble recalling.

“Well,” Dean loses patience in the end, “what did he do?”

“I am trying to remember. It is not easy, believe me. He chose Earth in the end, Earth and humanity. You have to understand that his power was immense, in that moment in that place that being was practically a second God. He rewrote every cell of his being in that moment and back in time. Suddenly he was not the Antichrist, he gave up the power. He was only a mortal child. He had always been a mortal child.” Castiel rubs his face, eyes nose and chin as if he was washing himself off the memory. “Hell and Heaven were furious, of course. Grand preparations for war went for nothing. The Apocalypse would never be. Hell, well they wanted their superiority. I don't pretend to know what our side hoped to gain in the war of all wars, but I suspect that Michael hoped that if the Great Plan came to the end, the God would return and speak to us again. You can say that a bunch of kids just wanted their absent father's attention,” the angel's face splits in an uncharacteristic grin.

“I have no idea what's more creepy, Cas; that there was a whole-ass Apocalypse I didn't know about,” Dean takes a swig of his non-alcoholic beer to wash down the baguette, “or that you have adopted a sense of humor, and a cynical on the top of that.”

Sam deliberately borrows Dean's bottle because the snack really needs to be washed down, the sooner the better. “You said that Aziraphale went missing soon after the second Apocalypse.”

A nod. “The second Apocalypse is the one you are more than familiar with. It was... orchestrated, to say the least. When I say that Aziraphale went missing soon after that, I am not really precise on it. It was when I and several other angels noticed he is gone. I cannot prove it, but I suspect that Gabriel and Michael had forcefully removed him from the picture before the second Apocalypse even begun.”

“Why would they do that?” Sam doesn't understand. “I thought Heaven would need every soldier. Especially after everything you have just told us about Principalities.”

Castiel blinks a few times. “Oh, haven't I mentioned? Aziraphale was one of the major reasons the Antichrist erased the original Apocalypse.”

Dean nearly drowns on his beer and has the distinctive feeling he's going to feel its stench in his nose even the next morning. Once he stops coughing up foam and spits out all the water from his lungs, he looks at Castiel as if it was his fault and then growls: “So, what happened to him?”

“I do not know.”

“Haven't you tried to find out?”

Castiel tilts head to side and looks thoughtful. “When I attempted to for the first time, I did not have the authority to see the proper records. But you are right, Dean Winchester, now there is no one who can stop me from seeing them.” He disappears and the air swiftly fills the air where he was sitting a mere blink of an eye ago.

The brothers exchange looks.

“Well, that's typical Castiel.”

“Better than atypical Castiel, I'm still digesting the fact that he made a joke.”

“Yeah. C'mon, Sammy, let's hit the road.”

They hit the road and take turns in driving and sleeping and listening to The Best Of Queen in hopes they get Bobby on air again, but with no luck. The whole ride goes without any further incident, as long as you don't count that they nearly got stampeded by a speeding moose near the state borders. But as Sam has put it: “I mean, it's Florida, I don't know why we are even surprised.”

They are also side-tracked by bringing down a vampire a bit south of Atlanta, Georgia, but neither of Winchesters counts it as an incident because no one got hurt and in no way it went anywhere near unusual regarding their business. If there was something unusual on it, it was how absolutely mundane it all was.

They tell nothing to Bobby, neither about the prophecy not Aziraphale nor about the angel blades. Even if they wanted to, the man wouldn't let them, because the minute they arrive and take the obligatory shower, because holy balls, boys, you had been crawling through the sewers, Bobby pitches to them how they can distill basilisk blood. And thus they spend a week elbow deep in rotting reptile blood, explaining that they had, in fact, been crawling through sewers and in the free meantime watching the reprising Golden Girls.

Sam has been also making a valiant effort at deciphering Agnes' prophecies written in a sharpie on the back of Castiel's CD's. Valiant doesn't mean necessarily successful, but it is a good excuse to switch between unholy amount of lager and even less holy amount of coffee, depending whether he feels too sober or too tired for the task. By Thursday it reaches that point when Dean has considered his brother officially moved in the bunker and brought him a blanket there. It had to be Thursday. Sam's never got the hang of Thursdays.

“I seriously wish I had something that I could use as a pattern,” he exhales over his bowl of noodle soup which is more noodles than water and if you stabbed your spoon in it, it would remain standing upright.

Dean is tending to the distillation apparatus, making sure the cold water is running through and cooling down the system. “A pattern?”

“Agnes wrote this back in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, or so. A lot of the things she saw she had no names for. Cars, for example. Petrol. Even a bloody light bulb she describes as a glowing pear. I deciphered that only because Donna tried to teach me German.” He slams the empty CD case on the table. The CD homing there is currently rotating in the recorder and playing some gentle David Bowie for them. “But I'm sure that Anathema's family has done all this kind of translations already, so I am basically wasting my time her on discovering Europe all over again.”

A rush of wind blows through the bunker and rustles Sam's deciphering notes.

“Hello,” Castiel basically collapses into a seated position on the nearest crate. He looks exhausted.

“Hi. Where have you been angel?” Dean goes to greet him and to get him a blanket. Castiel looks like he needs a blanket.

“I was in Heaven,” Castiel doesn't react in any way to the fact he is being turned into an angel-blanket burrito. “I investigated and I believe I know what happened to Aziraphale.”

Sam spares the two of them a look before he returns his gaze to the table. Then his eyes fall on a slightly charred book. When he opens it on the first page, the letters kindly informing that he is reading _The Nice And Accurate Prophecies by Agnes Nutter the Witch _and that the book is reminiscent of Nostradamus in the time of his greatest glory. In a thin line done with a pencil there is a footnote that Sam doesn't remember bringing in here from their visit to the bookshop in London, but it is indeed very convenient that they brought it anyway. It would have been useful to find it sooner, though.

However, he puts it aside, because Castiel is giving the vibe of sharing bad news and that is going to require Sam's full attention. And some whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be writing other stuff than this but I'm having the drive here and this is easy to write.  
Also I'm so happy this work is so well loved by you all folks. You great.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Aziraphale?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Hell(enHighwater) for pushing me into the direction of the plot and reminding me that I have plenty of Good Omens characters to stuff in here. You might have noticed that the line about stampeding plot bunnies has disappeared from the story summary. I am happy to announce that I obtained a full-assed plot, not just a plot bunny. so once again, Thanks, Hell!  
Also thanks to Storm for being my redshirt fact-checker, a minor divergence from the SPN canon created due to poor memory and lack of understanding of the show has now been fixed.

“As I said earlier, you made me come to the realization that the Heavenly scripts and records are free for me to see now,” Castiel starts. He isn't wrong, the brothers agree silently, a week ago does count as earlier.

“What did you find out?” they pester him with eager eyes. Well, Dean pesters him with eager eyes, Sam is searching under the table for some booze to chug. He finds nothing.

“You are not going to like it.”

“Spill it out, Cas. What happened to that Earth-wing?” Sam groans as he finds a can of Redbull and decides it has to do.

“The records omit that, all and any mentions of him were stopped being written six months and twelve days before the Apocalypse. I have found something of use, however.” Castiel does something uncharacteristic – he gulps and closes eyes. Whatever it is he is about to say, it is going to be terrible. “I have found the name he adopted in order to avoid suspicion on Earth.”

“You are saying it like it's bad news,” Dean frowns in a mild confusion, because how could this be bad news? Why is Castiel making it so dramatic? He is son to find that out.

“His Earth chosen name was A. Zira Fell.”

Dean is a bit pulled aback: “What does the A stand for?”

“Oh _fuck,_” Sam puffs his cheeks before Castiel can provide any answer. “That demonic _bastard._”

Castiel nods: “Yes.”

“Hold on, hold on. What?”

“A. Zira Fell, Dean,” Same taps the table with the _Nice And Accurate Prophecies. _“The bookshop, it belonged to an angel and it says A. Z. Fell above the door.”

It takes a couple of seconds for the information to sink in. Somewhere during that time Dean even remembers to close his mouth. He then opens it again to say: “Well, at least we known Crowley is really a bastard.”

“Well, that's hardly anything new,” Bobby chuckles accompanied with a lot of static. “What did he do this time, that son of a witch?”

Except Castiel everyone starts to look around in search for the man. Castiel is glaring at the radio. After a moment Sam catches on when he realizes that David Bowie can no longer be heard. Dean follows when he is tapped on the shoulder.

“Killed and angel bookseller,” answers Dean.

“Well, the next time you see him, kick him in the balls for me, boys.”

“Afraid can't do that,” Sam says with a lot of cheer.

“How comes?”

“The King of Hell kicked the bucket.”

Bobby snorts: “Bucket of holy water or what?”

“He sacrificed himself to seal Lucifer within a different reality,” Castiel informs Bobby.

Bobby gasps when he hears the angel. “That... that I find hard to belief.”

They chat after that for a little while, how they miss each other, about the basilisk hunt they did last week, about the Apocalypseverse. Bobby is glad he didn't have to deal with the latter, but oh my God, Sam, what did you drop on the basilisk's head again? Balls, I can't believe that worked. Oh it _didn't _work, yeah that would make sense, but it was so pissed it ran into the wall and- Boys, you have far more luck than brain and brawn combined.

Eventually the connection to Heaven gives out and they don't manage to establish it back again, mainly because neither of them has any idea how it works or what it is in the first place.

The brothers exchange a look. Eventually Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and closes eyes and admits: “We should tell the Bobby here about the prophecy. He's going to be angry, but he deserves to know.”

“Do you think it's a good idea?”

“If I don't tell him,” Dean stands up and turns the radio off, “then I don't know how I am going to live with myself for the rest of my life. I piss off myself enough as it is.”

“I am an angel. He is not past his war against both Heaven and Downstairs,” Castiel points out. “I better not be there when you inform him of his future.”

Sam hums something along and helps himself to his spiral notebook into which he had copied all the CD prophecies. “Great. Get you ass here, angel, we're going to do some translating into Human English from Early Modern Prophet.”

“Keep an eye on the blood, though,” Dean nods towards the ongoing distillation. “I'd hate to clean up if it blew up and who knows when we are going to run into another magic lizard.”

“According to prophecy 21, two days from now,” mutters Castiel. Dean avoids giving him a reply by simply heading out and to the house. He parks on the free driveway and doesn't even try the garage, because since April it's full of cursed swords. Bobby's been dealing with them slowly, but there still isn't enough space to park a car.

The door isn't open, but it's not locked either, so Dean lets himself in and knocks from inside. “Hey, Bobby? You up?” There is no answer, but then, Bobby's not getting any younger nor his hearing any better.

The hall smells quite badly, there has to be a fault in the plumbing. Since it's evening and quite dark, Dean taps the switch to turn the light on the instant he feels he's getting goose flesh from the stench. Sure, sometimes goose flesh means you are cold or excited or many other things, but Dean has learned to be paranoid because better worried for no reason than incautious when in grave danger. The light doesn't turn on.

Dean makes a step forward and his sole crushes thin glass underneath – a broken lightbulb. Just to be on the safe side, he pulls out the glock from underneath his jacket, but because of weapon safety he hasn't got finger on the trigger and he's pointing it to the floor. Slowly he proceeds to the kitchen.

“Bobby?” he whispers and then tries it again louder.

In the living room is a mess. Not a random clutter and mash of things put places without care or time. This is that kind of mess which happens during a fight. The table is laying on its side, the Disneyland snow globe didn't make it through and now there are fake snowflakes swimming on the floor. By the look of it, it was thrown after someone but missed and hit the wall.

That's not what Dean notices at first. The first thing he notices is the stench of sulfur and sewage. So not a faulty plumbing then. It is so strong, however, that Dean has to retreat back to the kitchen, because he begins to gag. The window is opened.

Then he curses himself: “I am such an idiot. The car!” Bobby's car wasn't in front of the house when Dean arrived. Yet it wasn't locked and bobby always locks the door when he's going away! Always. It's a miracle he doesn't booby-trap the whole house and barricade all windows and door before he goes out even if just for the groceries.

He hears the phone in the hall ringing. That's how you know you are in the house of a monster hunter: There's a land-line. Or you're visiting your stubborn grandma. Or both. He goes to get it, since Bobby very obviously can't.

It's Sam: “Hey, this is Sam.”

“Hi Sammy.”

“Oh.” Sam pauses and there is some talking in the background which Dean can't make out but it sounds like very urgent Castiel. “Alright, have you got Bobby in there?”

Dean manages not to snap at his brother and instead he sighs flatly: “No.”

“Well get him.”

“Can't.”

“This is important. He is going to be kidnapped!”

His voice strains as he does his best not to shout at his brother: “You don't fucking say.”

Another pause, but this time Sam isn't talking to anyone. In the end he concludes: “Oh shit.”

“Smells a lot like it. And like a demon. You've got your information from a prophecy, right? Good,” he continues when Sam hums to confirm it, “does it say where they're taking him?”

“Unfortunately no. Wait, what was it, Cas? There are plenty of places where the sky is open, that could be anywhere outside. Alright, yes. Dean We are with you in an instant.”

“Turn off the blood!” Dean manages to instruct his brother a mere second he hangs up. He hopes that the fact that Castiel hasn't appeared with Sam right behind him a moment later means that they've actually turned the apparatus off.

As it turns out, they have. When they show up twenty minutes later, Sam has a plastic bottle full of clear viscous hot pink liquid. “It's the antidote. If the prophecy 21 is true, and it most likely is, that it is going to come in handy,” he explains.

Dean acknowledges it and asks: “What does 21 say?”

“_The basilisk shall sinketh its teeth into every ankle it sees the next timeth the moon turns to blood after Castiel reads this,_” Castiel fills him in and then adds in a much more normal voice: “Which is two days from now. If you want to come to a large amount of money, I would suggest you found a betting pool that the two of you will fight a basilisk and a demon at the same time.”

“The prophecy says that too?” Sam stares at him in a disbelief.

Castiel flashes a smile so brief that the brothers aren't sure they haven't just imagined it: “No. I've only watched you for long enough to know your luck.”

The boys have to admit that he does have a point so pointy it could be used to mend socks if you attached a thread to it. Once the air clears enough for them to enter the living room without the risk of throwing up, they set the place to some order and bend over the prophecy in a shared attempt to decipher it.

_1635: At which hour the sulphur and privy filleth the air, the sir of song is taken hence to where the sky opens to the sir and the stars art within reacheth. The dragon's hoodlum can f'rfeit nothing and shall returneth in a half-year_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A golden calf to whoever figures out where Bobby is.
> 
> On the side note, I think that story-wise we are somewhere just before the middle. However, the pace of the story should be growing exponentially, or so some "how to write prose" has once told me, which means that things are going to happen even faster, meaning there will be more of them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby's gone. Somebody help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So _finally the fact that I don't actively watch Supernatural and thus I don't dig deeply into the lore and its analysis has caught up with me!  
No longer we have plot holes, we have fact holes, and I have just invented fact bunnies which I stuff in those holes. If anywhere in the story you tread the ground seems to be a bit wiggly and not really solid or you hear it squeaking, that's a fact bunny. Please, be nice to the fact bunnies and tread around them carefully, they will not survive any heavy stomping and what kind of a monster would you be if you killed a cute fluffy-nuffy bunny?_

They rally up whoever they can, which means that they go through Bobby's phone and ask everyone who has recently called him to feed them with anything they notice and to keep both eyes open. They aren't really expecting any results, though.

Which is why they are very surprised when Deans phone begins to ring. He stares at the unknown number for a good three seconds before he picks it up: “Hello?”

“'Ey, man,” answers a cracked woman voice. “Is that Dean there?”

“Jess,” he breathes out in relief. He's been expecting a demon giving him a time limit and a huge price to pay or something. “Yes, hi.”

“So I be watching dem news, ya? Dis a-demon of yours, you say it left a shit-smell behind?”

“Yes. Sorry, wasn't I clear before?”

“Shutye, ya were clear enough for ol' Jess.” Jess isn't even thirty. “Do ye have any idea where Bobby could be?”

“Somewhere where the sky opens to a man and the stars are within reach.” Dean hears an amused chuckle on the other side, or maybe it's a cough. Just to be make her sure he isn't taking the piss, he adds: “Or at least, so says a bullshit book of prophecy written in a sharpie on the back of bunch of CD's.”

“Where skies open and dem stars be within reach. Wha'bout a rocket launchin' spot?” She says that the second sentence without any hesitation, as if she didn't have to think about it. Yet it clicks perfectly.

Dean nods, although Jess cannot see it: “Could easily be. Makes sense.”

Jess takes a deep breath and then speaks slowly, even dropping a huge part of her accent: “Dean, some shit has just gone down on Cape Canaveral, they had to evacuate the whole Kennedy Space Center, it's on lockdown. The official explanation is a sewer flooding, but there's been also an explosion in there. I don't know if this is what you've been looking for,” she begins to slip back into her regular speech pattern, “but I told ye I'd keep ma eyes out and dis juss' been dem news.”

Dean gulps. That would be too convenient a coincidence, wouldn't it? A day of preparation and a day of travel, give or take, to a place where one basilisk roamed free not so long ago when they have to fight a basilisk two days from now.

“_Where the stars are within the reach,_” he breathes out quietly. “Thanks Jess, love you, you great woman. This is the best we've got. I'll tell Sam to start packing.”

“When ye get Bobby back, tell him he's a doofus and I'm gonna kick him in dose balls of his for doing me a scare, you hear?”

“Sure, I –” He pulls the phone away from his ear, as Jess has already hung up. “I will,” he finishes.

Sam and Castiel are in the cellar illuminated by a flaming stick Sam is holding. They are both staring at it like a calf at a new gate or as thought it was the second coming of Christ. Which says _something,_ considering this is Castiel, an Angel of the Lord.

“Do I want to know, what's going on?” Dean asks cautiously when he finally makes it down the stairs and sees the two standing there like that. “Or am I interrupting something?”

Instead of a proper and normal reply Sam switches the flaming stick from his right hand to his left one, the white-with-hints-of-blue fire immediately goes out, and then he stabs it into the table. Now that it isn't burning, Dean sees it's an angel blade.

Sam gives Dean a big smile which is a subtle hint that he is _this_ close to hysteria and Castiel's staring isn't helping at all, so hopefully Dean you are bringing some good shit because if one more thing is going to happen, I, Sammy Winchester, am going to flip the fuck out. What he says out loud, however, is this: “So it turns out I have been wearing a magic ring for the past three weeks.”

“Well it didn't turn you invisible, so I don't have to shove you into a volcano. How comes you've noticed _now? _I thought you two were going to be busy deciphering the prophecy.”

“We were,” Sam admits the past tense, “and then I got fed up and so did Cass with it and I might have struck a sentence together along the lines that I'd love to see a Bible verse depicting Aziraphale, because what kind of a person would have the patience to go through a whole book of those bullshit cryptic prophecies and _this,_” he stabs an accusing finger to a rather thick book on the table, “appeared out of nowhere. Open the end of the third chapter of the Genesis. Verses twenty-four to twenty-seven”

“Oh,” Dean bends over and finds the correct passage.

_ **(24)** _ _ So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life. _ _ **(25) ** _ _And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying Where is the flaming sword which was given unto thee? _ _ **(26) ** _ _And the Angel said, I had it here only a moment ago, I must have put it down some where, forget my head next._ _ ** (27)** _ _ And the Lord did not ask him again._

Dean chuckles. Castiel misinterprets and offers him the explanation: “Aziraphale was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate before Eden was removed.”

“Removed to where?” the brothers speak in an almost perfect unison and they both spot a similar frown. Apparently, Castiel forgot to mention the last part to Sam.

The seraphim's eyes dart from left to right and from left up and then down and repeat this cycle a couple of times. Then he realizes his mouth has been slightly open this whole time, so he closes it. “No idea,” he says finally.

The Winchesters shrug it. This is a mystery that doesn't currently need solving and until very recently it wasn't even a mystery. They'll cross that bridge when they get to it, bu for now the river is too far away.

Although, Dean is still distracted: “Alright, explains this one book. What about all these others?” He makes a sweeping gesture at the small wall with towers of tomes of varying sizes, age and colour.

Sam has at least enough sense to look ashamed. He rubs the back of his head and says: “I, well, wanted to know if I can make any book appear after the Bible. I might get carried away a bit, but it was for research purposes. I have access to all the books in Fell's!”

Dean sighs wearily. He isn't paid enough for this, which might be because he isn't paid at all. “Sammy, have you tried sending them back?”

“No,” Sam confesses. He snaps his right hand. The books are gone. “But it works. Yu won't believe me, but I know which book was returned where, exact shelf and everything. I just _know._”

Dean throws himself on the chair: “Alright, before I break in the news of this evening for you, tell me one thing: How does the angel blade fall into this? I'd bet you a nickel that the blade falls into it somehow, but currently have no cash on me.”

“As I said, Principalities' equipment is vital to them. The ring served as Aziraphale's connection to the bookshop. Even though Aziraphale is gone, it is still imbued with his power. Upon touch, the angel blade recognizes the power of a Principality and lights itself,” Castiel picks up the blade casually from the table and it disappears somewhere in the place between angelic mysteries and the trench coat.

“Se this is what we've got,” Sam smiles. “Can you beat it?”

“You bet, Sammy.” Dean gives a brief sad smile. “Jess called back. We've got lots of reasons to suspect that Bobby and his demonic kidnapper are in the Kennedy Space Station. Go get packing.”

Sam turns around: “Cass, can't you take us there?”

Castiel considers that option for a moment and then shakes his head: “I wouldn't be able to carry all the weaponry you'd wish to carry. Considered that I was unable to localize Robert Singer, the demon knows how to raise Enochian protection sigils. I will be surprised if I am able to accompany you to the battlefield at all, let alone appear in there out of nowhere.” He winces as he says it.

The brothers suddenly look far more concerned.

“What?”

“You usually refer to it as teleportation,” Dean explains, making soothing gesture, because Castiel is someone he doesn't want to offend, he's a friend and also powerful. “It's not like you to change the way you talk.”

Castiel glares at him for a long moment and the Winchesters are trying their best not to look like they want to dive under the table and hide. Finally he hisses: “Just in case you have not noticed, I no longer have my wings. Twisting the reality for it to take me where I wish to be is very draining on my powers and I refrain from it unless I cannot avoid it or when the matter is most urgent and time-pressing, such as when I need to travel between dimensions. A simple mistake or a too heavy burden could and would erase me completely out of existence. I would not end in the Empty, I would be strangled in the thin nothingness between realities, unable to act, move or even contact anyone.”

Until literally right now, that had never occurred to any of the brothers. Dean digests it all first. “Right. So you also get packing.”

“Wait, what?” The angel takes a step back.

“You've just explained that Angel Airlines are canceled, so now you are traveling with, uh, Dean Deliveries. Grab all the stuff you want to bring with you and get them in the Impala.”

“I'm calling shotgun!” Sam basically skyrockets out of the cellar to get his sleepover duffel bag which has its residency in the attic.

Dean follows him at a more reasonable pace, and Castiel trails out after him once he stops being so smitten, which takes a while. After that, the brothers don't see him for the whole time it takes them to pack up, but they are a bit too busy to notice anyway.

Castiel is waiting for them standing besides the Impala. He is holding a brightly pink kid backpack depicting a very glittery unicorn and the phrase _School Prom Princess!!! _(exclamation marks included). The backpack is stuffed enough to burst and Castiel is looking very proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inky gremlin demands comments. Inky gremlin wants to talk about this whole fanfic a lot and the comments are a good excuse to do so. C'mon. I want to overshare things! Let me, let me, let me!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What kind of mysteries does Castiel's backpack hold, and how the fuck do we get to Bobby?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this could use some beta. Tho, no editing or betta fish looking, we burn in this trash like... Like... uh... like gasoline?

According to Google Maps it takes 19 hours and 26 minutes to get from Lawrence, Kansas to Cape Canaveral, Florida if along the way you have to pass through Jacksonville, also Florida. Google Maps, however, don't consider stops for bathroom breaks, roadwork or the multiple change of drivers because it is dangerous to keep driving for longer than four hours without a stop, especially if everything that is powering you is the concern for the well-being of an alternate version of a person you care a lot about and two cans of Monster.

Regarding the energy drink, Dean is now certain that Castiel picked them as a joke, but so far he has no proof and Castiel has, of course, denied everything.

Sam and Dean take turns driving and sleeping. After the third time any of them has to slam the brakes because of a deer in the headlights, Castiel has took a firm grasp on his seat belt across the chest and has not let since.

“I keep telling you, Cass,” says Sam, as Dean is currently asleep, snoring into the window, “you'd be more comfortable and a bit safe if you sat to side”

Castiel remains sitting in the middle seat, religiously holding onto his seat belt but he disappears out of the view of the rear mirror as they are going past past Macon.

“Sam, where has our angel gone?” Dean checks the back for Castiel but because he cannot turn around without plunging the car into something, Sam is the one who hasn to turn around and take a look.

“Nowhere,” Sam informs him after he stops giggling. “He toppled sideways. Looks like he had fallen asleep.”

“I thought that angels don't sleep?”

“I am not sleeping,” Castielmumbles quite unconvincingly. “But I am giving it a try. I have unlimited patience and I find sleeping utterly boring.” He sits up and when he notices his hair on side is sticking in all directions except the proper one and his cheek is reddened from laying on the sat, he snaps his fingers and within the blink of an eye he looks like his immaculate bit racoon-y self.

He asks: “Are we there yet?”

Dean chuckles: “No, but at this point it's closer to the Space Station than turning around and going back home.”

Castiel is silent for a very long while before he says with a deep sigh: “Enochian has no swearwords.”

“Are you seriously trying for a small talk?” Sam nearly spills his to-go coffee which has over the hours gone cold and possibly a bit sentient.

“No?” Castiel sinks back into the backrest, trying to make his vessel more comfortable. “I am raising a complaint.”

Dean risks a glance at his brother to confirm they are both thinking the same thing: Letting Castiel say _fuck _would be giving the angel too much power. As defense mechanism, Sam turns on the radio. After they listen to the weather, Sam picks up _The Temptations Do the Temptations _and lets it play.

“The prophecy of today,” he announces loudly, “is _1330: Supplyeth the lasteth archangel with frappuchino of caramel lest ye meet fate most gruel and dire._”

“That is surprisingly straightforward,” Castiel points out. Then he has to ask: “What is a frappucino?” The explanation is a tangent of arguments and discussion that goes on and off and lasts with occasional breaks all the way until they park at Jess'.

Google Maps also don't count in the obligatory dinner which Jess feeds them, and little Amalka climbing all over them and asking if they are going to meet another big magic lizard and if she can play flute for it now too. Castiel politely informs the daughter of Eve that she absolutely cannot, and then he reaches to the depths of his pink backpack and supplies her with a müsli bar.

“You brought snacks?” Sam questions upon their departure

“They aren't _snacks,_” Castiel pointedly doesn't look at him.

Dean is amused: “No? What are they then?”

“Bribes.”

The brothers have to admit that it works unsurprisingly well. “Is your whole baggage edible bribery?” Sam cannot help himself but ask.

“No.” Castiel doesn't elaborate on that, but when Jess insists that they have to have at least a four hour long nap each, so if the boys would hit the coach and guest bedroom, which is offered to the angel as he hasn't got a strike yet unlike the Winchesters, he produces a toothbrush and a small light-blue travel towel from the backpack.

“What a man. Always prepared. I bet ye two haven't even brought yer own pajamas, have ye?”

Dean and Sam have to admit to Jess that they haven't. Castiel also hasn't got his own nightwear, but somehow he isn't chided for it in the slightest.

“That is because I brought my own towel,” Castiel explains in a half-whisper, leaning in the door frame while he holds his toothbrush like a sword. “It is a psychological device comforting humans I encounter.”

Sam raises his head slightly above the pillow and blows his hair out of his face mumbling weakly: “I knew that telling you to read _The Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy _was a mistake.” And with the soft pillow version of_ thud _his head falls down again. Dean hasn't got a reaction to any of that because you could blow _Carry On My Wayward Son_ off-key on your cheap red plastic kazoo right next to his ear and he wouldn't wake up.

What finally wakes them up is Amalka and her sugar high combined with her flute and her mother's instruction to wake the boys if they want to save Bobby in time.

“Uncle Castiel hasn't slept at all, mum,” she rats him out.

“Well, Cass be an angel, darling.”

“And he hasn't eaten his veggies!”

Castiel eyes suspiciously the green beans and carefully proceeds to eat them before they decide to eat him first. It's easier than dealing with Amalka's complaints.

The sun has just decided to show first rays of light so the three men set out for the road. The make it to Cape Canaveral with the final time 26 hours, 22 minutes and 35 seconds as Castiel informs them when the Impala finally stops.

They've stopped because of the sigils on the road. “Whoever this demon is, they are not taking any chances,” Sam pouts bitterly. “Cass?”

“Proceed. If I find a way, I will join you. If not, I will be waiting right here.”

Dean and Sam exchange looks. Then Dean reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the car keys. He gives them to Castiel who is looking at them quite dumbfounded. “Cass, if it starts to rain, don't stand_ right here_ like a fucking tool and get in the car, alright?” Then not to sound as if he cares too much about the angel, he adds: “If you lose them, I'll fucking wreak you.”

“I accept this burden of responsibility,” Castiel replies with a solemn face and manages to hold it for another five seconds of intense staring. But to give him the credit, Dean loses it first.

The brothers continue the trip on foot but not before they toss a coin whether either plan Scully or plan Mario. Scully wins it, so they put on suits.

After another ten minutes of walking they reach the gate. It isn't heavily protected, but the three guards there don't look much at ease. In fact, they are looking scared shitless.

Sam shows them his fake badge alongside Dean, hoping the guards aren't going to inspect it too properly. “Agent Samuel Swann, this is Agent Dean Singer, FBI.”

The guardsman, whose name tag says Jim Steiren, stares at him with not-so-gentle confusion. Sam has this bad feeling that this time it's not going to work.

“What the ever-loving fuck took you so _fucking long?_” Jim breathes out. He motions them to get past the gate with a thumb and opens for them. “The central building, first floor is where we think it's at, you can't miss it. Man, I thought there'd be more of you.”

“We are trained professionals,” Dean points out. “We are more than enough to handle it.” He hopes it's true. Jim looks a bit reassured and Dean and Sam walk past the gate with confidence so obvious that they are afraid everyone has to recognize it for fake.

The Kennedy Space Station is a lot of parking lots surrounding buildings which look like somebody followed Lego City construction manual. It is mostly devoid of people, those who are there are either another guardsmen or very worried science-looking people.

They head to the main building which is the tallest, brickiest and ugliest there is and also has the NASA logo painted on it. “Finally, once a person who says 'you can't miss it' and actually means it,” Sam comments.

They've been planning how to sneak inside for the whole time they have been walking. When they reach the line of palms at the parking lot, they find out they don't need to get inside at all. That is a bit of a relief but not much.

Bobby is laying there on the ground and it isn't clear if he is unconscious, dead, or simply just not moving. He is not asleep because he is not snoring. He has some bruises and scrapes and he sports a split lip and a black eye, the left one.

Two steps to Bobby's left stands a man. He has a rather nasty looking knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> B.M. scene ft. the Impala. You are welcome.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Advised for your own safety: Do not fight hysterical demons who have nothing to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: Epic fight scenes are much better in a video than in text description, but you'll have to make a do.

Sam and Dean would have missed him if he didn't make a sound. It was probably meant as a chuckle or a giggle, but in fact it turns out to be indescribable. They look at him because it is always good to know who or what you are fighting.

The man blends into the surroundings. Medicore height, white. His skin is reminiscent of unbaked bread dough and the top of his hair is capped with a mop of wispy pale hair. His coat was once either brown or green, now it is mostly gray and patched and sewn together in many places and it gives him quite the shapeless form. Overall he could be a zombie from a B-rated horror movie or just what the government would use on a poster aiming against the homeless. The smell doesn't help that impression even in the slightest. Despite how much he looks like he crawled out of a trash can, there is nothing reminiscent of a raccoon about the man. More of a big sick toad sitting in the well and poisoning the water.

Demons don't usually show their true eyes. This one does. They are black. No as black as the hollow void or flawless obsidian as the brothers are used to see, these look like blank jelly or ink-stained kidney.

Usually when you see a demon and recognize it for what it is you took a step or two back in horror. Here the Winchesters recoil in disgust and somehow that makes them far more afraid than if it was regular fear.

The demon returns them the look and laughs at them, although there is no humor in his voice. It is either shrieking or hysteria.

“Who are you?” Sam demands to know.

Dean adds: “And what have you done to Bobby?”

“Knocked him out,” the demon shrugs and runs a whetstone over his knife. It's a nasty business of a knife – no ritual carvings, no decoration, nothing. It's a simple skinning knife, except its blade doesn't look like steel, it is solid yellow. “He's too much of a fight.”

A thunder sounds in the distance, the sky darkens with clouds. There is a big storm on the way

“Get away from him. I warn you. We'll kill you if you do any harm to him.” Sam reaches into his pocket and takes out the angel blade he had brought with himself. For now, he is holding it in his left hand, because he shouldn't spoil the surprise.

“You'll do no such a thing,” the demon grins as he squats down to Bobby. He checks his pulse on neck and chuckles again as if the brothers weren't there and didn't threat him with death. With all the twitchy movements he has, Dean reaches the conclusion that the demon is insane, even for a demon.

There is a click. Dean has demon trap bullets and is planning to use them. As the lightning striking through the sky illuminates the scenery in cold blue, his frown is especially gruesome.

“The prophet said that if I let Him cross in here, everything would be fine, you see?” The demon lets out another chuckle and effortlessly flips Bobby over on his stomach. Then he takes a couple of steps back to check his knife for one last time. He licks it.

Dean doesn't hesitate. The moment there isn't the danger he could shoot Bobby by an accident, he aims and pulls the trigger. On his left Sam does the same.

The two gunshots carry far, but the thunder drowns them. First three raindrops fall on the ground. Sam's bullet has missed completely and found its way into a car parked nearby. Dean's bullet hits.

Or rather, it should have hit. It's definitely made a contact with the demon. The brothers don't know how or when he moved, but he is standing there with his hand extended forward, holding the bullet between his index finger and the thumb. He is frowning now.

“You know, boys, you are stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid, stupid._” He drops the bullet and it rolls away. Dean watches it trajectory as if he was hypnotized. “I have no idea what you're trying here,” the demon speaks. “You're not going to stop me like this. I am the Duke of Hell and you're trying to what, _shoot_ me? With _this?_”

The bullet has stopped in an oily pool on the ground. The car Sam has shot before has been hit in the tank and the gasoline is leaking out now. Where there isn't gasoline. More drops fall, some hit Dean behind his neck and he realizes that gas fire can't be put out with water.

“Child of Basileus, get rid of them, so commands Hastur, your rightful master!” the demon shrieks. What seemed to be a patch of asphalt bursts up, dirt and rocks flying out alongside with chunks of concrete, water shoots out as the pipes underground rip apart. So there _was _something to the official explanation of the faulty plumbing after all.

And amid the debris a giant lizard makes its way to the surface. It had to be hidden there, burrowing in the hard ground for a long time. Therefore not only it is angry, it's also pissed off.

The Basilisk hisses in anger and leaps after Dean who has to roll aside to dodge it. He ends up with a bruised shoulder and a scraped knee, probably, and also soaking wet because the rain has finally decided to pour out at its fullest. That suit isn't going to fool anyone that Dean belongs to the FBI any time soon.

Hastur, as long as the name he called himself is really his name, grins wickedly, nearly splitting his head in half with it. Sam briefly notices that his teeth is in a very poor condition before the basilisk swings its tail against him and sends him flying several feet through the air and he hits one of the rare grassy patches in the parking lot, completely out of breath.

He scrambles back to his feet like most people scramble eggs, just to see Hastur stabbing the yellow blade straight between Bobby's shoulder blades, which is a feat on its own, considered it is a skinning knife. The body jerks but remains motionless. However, the knife's handle begins to glow dimly. Since Dean seems to be dodging the reptilian beast quite well on his own while avoiding looking in its eyes and turning to stone, Sam makes a daring leap towards Bobby.

Hastur, however, notices him. With one hand he makes a sweeping motion, like he is a Jedi or something, and Sam hits the air in front of him as thought it was a solid brick wall and the impact makes him loose grip on the angel blade he's been holding. He falls to the ground a bit dazed as the demon, cackling like a maniac no less, strides towards him, hands in his coat's pockets.

Sam reaches for the blade, but Hastur is faster and steps on his fingers. The demon bends down, they are now staring face to face and Sam feels bile rising up his throat.

“You be thinking yourself brave, ain't you?” Hastur breathes into his face. Whatever it is in his lungs, it smokes a lot of cigarettes and has a relation to a decaying swamp in one way or another. “Well, I think you're stupid. It doesn't matter. I don't have to care about you. Once I get Him here, everything will be fine. He'll fix ev'rything. Even your stupid _stupid _head. If I don't squish it to pulp first.” Then he whistles.

Sam feels that the painful pressure pinning down his hand has gone as Hastur takes a step back, but that is not the victory it should be, because his ankle suddenly bursts in agony. If anybody ever asks him later, he'll describe it as burning ice in veins, but nobody will ask it. Either they'll know what it's like when a basilisk bites you or they won't know such a thing happened to Sam.

The beast drags him aside and drops him next to Dean who has a cut on his forehead, his lower part of trousers is soaked in blood and he is laying in a pool of water. The basilisk hasn't kiled them... yet. Its fangs are venomous and the toxin has already entered both brothers' respective bloodstreams, but the slight relief of the hopelessness of their situation is that basilisk's venom is primarily numbing, so whatever is going to happen to them, it isn't going to hurt horribly.

The basilisk, far larger than the one Sam and Dean took down three weeks ago, sits beside them patiently and waits for Hastur's next command. Dean is still conscious but moving is too hard, Sam at least manages to turn his head to see what is happening to Bobby, because unlike his brother he was dropped face-down.

Bobby is still not moving, but the knife is now emitting light strong enough to leave a searing afterimage when Sam closes his eyes to blink. Hastur returns to the body at slow leisurely pace, hands buried deep in his pockets, wide smile on his face. His gooey eyes reflect the light from the knife in all wrong directions, and with time the light only grows.

It reaches the point when it is too bright to look at directly and Hastur has timed his walk perfectly, because that's exactly when he reaches the body. He bends over, the movement lacks any elegance, but it is also devoid of any unnecessarily. Like a mycologist enthralled by a new discovered species would pick up a mushroom, Hastur plucks the knife out of Bobby's back. That is accompanied by a horrifying howl which makes marrow tremble, blood freeze and the three cars left in the parking lot better have a damn good insurance because their windows simply shatter and fall out.

Hastur waits until the screaming tunes down to a whisper coming out of the knife and then – Then he simply vanishes in the thin air.

That is when the basilisk growls. “Oh yeah, ran out of your commands, haven't you?” Dean breathes out. Sam on his side somehow manages to sit up at the cost all of his remaining energy, spits out bloody foam and adds: “This snack is going to fight from inside.”

The basilisk locks eyes on Sam who feels sudden stiffness creeping from his face to the rest of his body, but only to find it disappearing just as quickly when the reptile turns its head to somewhere behind him. It looks cautious, as if it heard something.

And it has heard something, it only takes a bit longer to the human ears to pick up over the sound of the rain and thunder. It's a roaring engine and blasting basses. Namely it is Queen. To be even more precise, it is We Will Rock you which is just going into the guitar solo.

A huge scaly shadow runs past the brothers and dashes towards the arriving Impala. But the basilisk stops again when the music gets painfully distorted. The beginning of the next song is stretched into all directions beyond any and all recognition, the ground shakes.

Dean, who hasn't been able to move his head, sees something else: From inside of Bobby's body comes light, it goes through his eyes, his mouth, his ears. The body floats to the air like a puppet pulled on strings, spreads its hands and then there is a huge flash of light which temporarily blinds everyone and everything. Dean loses consciousness, finally.

When he wakes up, his full field of vision takes Castiel's face. When the angel, who is wearing a white lab coat for some strange reason, pulls away a bit and helps Dean to sit up, the sore human sees they are still in the parking lot. The parking lot is burning in places and the grass is quite scorched. The basilisk is very much roasted.

Sam seems to be doing okay, he is sitting and cussing under his breath. Much the same was bobby sitting next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note to Gabrielle: I promise the next chapter is going to have the promised archangel with caramel frappuchino. This just got too long, so the archangel wouldn't fit in.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We've got Bobby and also the promised Archangel with a frappuchino.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... suppose that I should point out that since I hoard all the SPN knowledge like a dragon (messily, without a proper hunt or purpose), this contains Season 15 spoiler?  
I shoudl put that in the tags. BRB, tags changing. There.

“I would have been here faster but the guards were hard to convince and I didn't want to do any permanent damage to them,” Castiel says as he forces a plastic bottle to Dean's hands.

Dean doesn't need any further instructions: He uncaps the bottle and chugs down as much as he can before it makes him feel nauseous. The all-purpose antidote has to be magical on some level, because there is no way he'd feel that much better immediately.

He looks around to make an asset of everything that has happened. The scattered gasoline pools are slowly running out of fuel and are dying out. The basilisk is a crisp and unless anyone fancies a gasoline and venom soaked burger, there isn't anything worthy salvaging from it. All of that is fairly unimportant, because there is Bobby slowly rising to his feet. “Balls, my back hurt as if some bastard tap-danced on them,” he says.

Sam and Dean stare at him, only Castiel is treating it as if it was a normal Wednesday afternoon.

“Seriously, coming from back the dead sucks. Can't wrap my head why you two did it so many times.” Bobby limps to the impala. The whole body feels stiff and foreign to him. He leans his back on the door, forces a smile and asks overly saccharine: “Anyone care to tell me what the hell has just happened?”

“No idea,” says Sam while Dean is feeling only strong enough to shake his head and to consider it a huge mistake afterwards.

“A demon has kidnapped Robert Singer who originally came to this world form an alternate universe. This human's soul has been forcibly captured with a soul carver if the state of the body is any indication,” Castiel tilts his head as his mind runs the analysis. “When I have arrived with a latent bridge to heaven, your soul has sensed a vacant body and possessed it.”

“It's that easy?” Dean's voice sounds hoarse and alien to him. He isn't feeling as brave as to get up yet. But the rainwater is far more annoying.

Castiel whispers half a prayer, but out loud he says: “No. A large amount of additional factors features in it. For the simplicity I've omitted the details.”

Dean makes it up to a standing position with sheer will and half a miracle. “Is this that prophecy, wossnumber, the one with the mercury bridge?”

“Castiel nods.

“So this is _our_ our Bobby?” Sam asks just to be absolutely certain.

“Shocking, I know,” Bobby huffs. Then he huffs a bit more because Sam hugs him. Dean more or less falls on them in an attempt to join. “Gee, boys, don't get all emotional. You'll have me crying.”

There is a brief pause when everyone is too excited and checking out Bobby, but the body he is wearing is identical to the old Bobby's one, mainly because it is the same Bobby. Then Castile clears his throat to get attention: “We still have a problem on our hands, not to mention the guards approaching this place.”

Dean feels finally well enough to drive them out of there, but they still have to deal with the natives. Castiel does the talking, because he has a lab coat and has apparently told Jim Steiren that he is a doctor. When the guardsman notices the state of the boys, he has to admit that it is good they had a doctor on the side and forgets to question Bobby's presence.

The basilisk bakes the news as a DNA enhanced alligator released in Kennedy Space Station as a sabotage. Jess frames that clipping and hangs it up on the wall, because it's some great X Files shit. Then she feeds the men some Chili con Carne which is a lot of chili and only a little carne.

“We still have lost Hastur and other Bobby's soul,” reminds them Sam before they feel too satisfied with how things ended up.

Castiel, who's been hunched over examining his travel towel, springs up wide-eyed. “Hastur?”

“That demon,” Sam clarifies. “He commanded the basilisk, commanding it with the name of Hastur, its true master or something. So if he wasn't Hastur himself, he works for that guy, I suppose.”

Castiel looks very worried. “If it is Hastur, it explains a few things. The Enochian sigils for a example. Or his ability to command beasts.” When both Bobby and little Amalka demand him to elaborate on that, he says: “Only a powerful demon would be capable of using the sigils, but Hastur is known for... not thinking hings completely thoroughly. He tends to act recklessly, especially when anything is pressing him. Anyone else would write protective sigils in something permanent, but he used _chalk,_” he smiles at that. “That is why I was able to come for you in the first place – the rain washed the protections away.”

They make the long journey home pondering how to get other Bobby's soul out of Hastur, which leads to the question where is Hastur, and that leads to the question what the fuck does Hastur want to do with Bobby's soul.

“What the fuck doeas Hastur want to do with Bobby's soul?” Sam addresses the elephant in the room.

“Bring Lucifer here,” says a woman standing behind them on the other side of the car. The crew turns around to look at her. She is white as cheese with mayonnaise, has a complicated up do which has come very wild and was probably made last Tuesday. Her soft gray pantsuit, on the other hand, is immaculate and there are drops of gold glitter on it which probably came loose from her face, as she has golden speckles around her eyes and cheekbones. Nobody dares to guess her age, because while she has plenty of wrinkles, she is also holding a plastic Starbucks cup which contains something vaguely coffee-like with a lot of ice and whipped cream and also a straw.

“Hello,” she beams at them without any cheer. “I suppose, Dean, I'm still not getting a ride, am I? Oh well, bad luck, I suppose.” she doesn't wait for an answer. “I see the betrayer is still tagging with you like a dog. Absolutely horrible to see you again, Castiel.”

Everybody is staring at here as if she had grown a second head. She slurps her frappuchino and then groans: “Ugh, you humans are so dependent on visual appearance. It hurts my ego that I don't get any reaction out of you. At least Castiel could have said _something. _C'mon, brother.”

Castiel remembers that to speak he needs to breathe and so he stops holding his breath. “Michael?” he breathes out in disbelief.

“Ladies and gentleman, we have ourselves a winner,” the woman pokes the ice in her cup with the straw.

“What- Eh, what are you in here- What are you- What are you doing here?” Dean begins to stutter. Michael's presence makes him very uneasy.

“Pitching you Hastur's plan, you oaf. I thought it was obvious.”

“If you promise you all behave civil and won't get into a fight, I'll invite you in for, I don't know, coffee and cookies?” That's Bobby who is aching all over, partly because he's been stuck in car for the ride and partly because getting used to a body that isn't his isn't really a comfortable experience.

They agree to behave and are seated in the living room. The living room is still in the after-kidnapping messy state, but Michael snaps her fingers and things fly to their proper places. Even the broken snow globe puts itself back together, it is like watching an action movie backwards.

Sam goes to make coffee and makes sure he has the angel blade in his pocket and Aziraphale's bookshop ring on his hand. He does, and that knowledge is comforting. When he returns with the coffee, Michael immediately spoils hers with milk and sugar. It feels odd to think about Michael as a woman, but besides Sam everyone seems to be coping with it well.

“So, how comes you are here?” Dean asks. “I thought you were locked up down there.”

“Oh, the Cage has just sort of opened up,” Michael shrugs. “Hell's quiet quiet and empty these days, though, so I was just enjoying the nice vacation. No screaming or yelling, no whining Adam. Been nice.” She sips her coffee like she doesn't care. She cares a lot, though, her hands are visibly shaking and her knuckles are pale, that's how hard her grip is on the cup.

“Why not to stay there, then? I mean, if it was so awesome.”

“There's been a change.” Michale shrugs and puts the empty cup back on the table. “I've spent my whole existence focused on bringing Lucifer down. I felt it when he got stuck in another dimension. I felt it when he was killed. And now I feel a different Lucifer banging at our metaphorical door. So I asked Doon to let me in her body again and now I'm here to stab him dead, because I still haven't had my chance to do that.”

“Do we want to know who's Doon?” Dean asks. It seems he is in charge of the interrogation.

“Your something something removed aunt on father's side. I've known her ever since I had to deal with the business in London. Don't worry you little head with it,” she waves her hand dismissively. “You should be more worried that Hastur is using the alternate Robert Singer's soul as a fuel to stabilize the void between the dimensions to a solid Between where he is searching for a Lucifer, any Lucifer, that he could bring into this world.”

Bobby sighs deeply: “And I come back to life for _this._”

“Your bad decisions aren't my problem,” Michael says nonchalantly. “Say, could I get another coffee?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do we get to Bobby, v.2.0. AKA that chapter with some convenient all-purpose rituals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Dove for pointing out stuff about the English grammar, particularly diacritics. This language is absolute bullshit and especially after PE I hate all the commas. That's the thing with schools: They make you memorize the history of a language that is not your won, but they won't tell you how to use the commas in that language.  
I am salty about comas.
> 
> Also Michael is a sassy bitch, not sure how much it's canon compliant but if it's not, I can always say that the archangel spent too much time in the Cage with Adam and Lucifer and now they have Enough [insert trademark].

Michael is provided another coffee while everyone is deliberately not panicking. Well, Sam, Dean and Bobby aren't panicking for sure, Castiel is staring at a wall straight ahead of himself, and nobody knows what is going through his head, only that whenever anyone passes in front of him, they suddenly get a horrible headache and whistle in their ears as if diving too deep in a swimming pool. The point is that everyone is calm and not screaming.

“Have you any plan?” Michael slurps her coffee. She keeps on doing horrible things to her coffee and in fact calling it coffee is enthusiasm. However, no one knows what to call it, so coffee it is until a better word gets invented.

Sam shakes head with sadness. “We have to find out where Hastur is exactly and then we'd have to consult the proper books and-”

“So you've got nothing,” Michael interrupts, “great. Are you always like that? The amount of pure luck you two have is unbelievable. You should bottle it and sell it. Alright, because we haven't got time to run around aimlessly and hope for enlightenment, here is what we are going to do.”

The plan is... It is described in many words. “Bold” is what Bobby says. “Crazy” is Castiel's go to. Michael herself describes it as “the only option” while Sam opts for “daring”. Dean says: “It might just work.” The waitress in the coffee shop is considering calling the police, but then she assumes that Michal is just too caffeinated and that there isn't a reason to be worried.

On their way back to Bobby's Castiel makes yet another brave trip to Tesco like a human because if they are going to be stuck with Michael for the foreseeable future, they are going to need loads of coffee to keep the archangel cooperative. That's why they went to the coffee shop in the first place – Michael has drank all the coffee in Bobby's house.

Aside from that they begin to make the preparations. Opening a rift to the Between is not that hard, the tricky bit is to make it not to kill you. Even the trickier bit is to make it back from the suddenly destabilized Between, not to mention you'd prefer to be in one piece and that piece should at least vaguely remind of the shape you had when you walked in.

Michael has offered a more detailed explanation of that, but Castiel argued that they don't really have the time for quantum physics of that level, the humanity still has a bit of trouble acknowledging that particles can be both a wave and mater at the same time.

They are going to need to do a rather ethically challenging ritual. “Blood bonds,” Castiel explains, “are a great responsibility and in past they have been heavily abused.”

“Well, this is me and Sam, so it's okay,” Dean shrugs as he keeps on grating the bat wing-bones. “I'd never do my brother any harm. Well, I'd eat his lunch leftovers, but that's the worst I'm capable of.”

Sam picks that exact moment to enter the room with an empty takeout box and adds sourly: “Yeah, I've noticed. Looks like I'm fasting today.”

“The point,” Castiel sighs and wonders if he should follow Michael and drink coffee as well and if it would help, “is not what you could do to your blood-bonded other, because you would have done that to yourself also. It is more what other people could do.”

“We'll be careful,” Dean replies promptly.

“We're going to be fine...” Sam doesn't exactly agree with his brother, but tries to reassure the angel anyway. “We are always fine in the end. More or less.”

Castiel clasps his hands together and closes eyes. When he is ready to speak again, he opens them, facing Sam directly: “Samuel Winchester, if you die because of this, please remember in your last moments that I told you so.”

The brothers exchange looks. They aren't good with words, though, so Dean just clasps takes hold of Castiel's shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze while Sam says: “We've been through worse.”

“That is the point. We have been through worse,” Castiel says with a thinly veiled despair. Everyone understands what he means: That it's too much for them, that it's been enough, that they need a break, that they deserve a damned pause, that it isn't fair, that the stroke of luck they've had has to run out at some point and it could just as easily be now, that they are scared of losing each other again, this time maybe permanently.

But no one knows how to express it.

Bobby does know how to, and so he does: “We don't do what we wanna do. We do what we feel we have to. It makes living with ourselves easier.”

“Yes, conscience is really an inconvenient bitch,” Michael agrees. “That is why angels are superior – we have duty, not conscience.” She then gives a knowing smirk to Castiel. He in turn doesn't look at her at all.

Bobby eyes the worktable. “Are we making a ritual, or a cooking show?”

“We are forging a blood bond, of course,” Michael beams as she walks over to the table.

“That's cream right there! In a glass bowl!”

Michael takes two crimson-red eggs and cracks them into the bowl of cream without breaking eye contact with Bobby. “I can narrate my every move if you'd prefer.”

“I think we are good,” Dean jumps in before those two can get into yet another argument. The archangel has been here for four days so far and she didn't get along with Bobby at all. Not like any of them tried extra hard, but they both were at least trying to get out of each other's way.

Michael begins to recite an incantation in what is presumed to be old Akkadian, and keeps adding ingredients to the mixture, some of them ordinary, such as a sprinkle of holy water soaked chalk or poppy seeds, some less so. By the way where did Bobby get mermaid's spit from in the first place? By all means of cooking and chemistry, the substance should be very sticky and barely holding together by the time Michael is finished. But because magic is involved it looks like blue honey instead.

“Very well then, boys, are you ready?”

Sam tries to be a smartass: “What happens if I say no?”

“Then of course we postpone the ritual until you feel completely ready, giving Hastur more time to open a rift to another dimension and bring some kind of certainly fucked up Lucifer through it. No press on you guys whatsoever.”

Dean flicks him one around the ear because he is the older brother and is supposed to keep Sam in check. He picks up the ornate silver-alloy knife, the only thing on the table now besides the bowl of the magical bonding substance, and cuts a shallow line on the back of his forearm. The knife has been sharpened, so it doesn't hurt in the moment, but out of the corner of his eye he notices Cass wincing.

Blood drips into the bowl, a drop by drop. Then Dean is handed a band-aid and Bobby disinfects the cut because while the ritual is very important, no one is getting their arm infected in it. Balls.

The same procedure repeats with Sam. Michael ceremonially lifts up the bowl and recites some more Akkadian but nobody is sure if that's for the drama or for the spell, because no additional effect happens.

“Now you each take a big sip because all that bleeding has left you dehydrated and also because it creates the bond, shake hands and then we set whatever is left in the bowl on fire to seal it and also because it would be super dangerous waste if we just threw it to the bin,” Michael instructs them.

Sam goes first this time. If his face is any indication, it doesn't taste well. He wipes the blue ring around his mouth off with his sleeve. “It's like drinking lube.”

Dean, who's just tipped the bowl to his lips, nearly chokes and he'll be sneezing the bonding potion out of his nose for another good two hours. He takes his revenge during the handshake when he nearly breaks one of Sam's metacarpal bones.

Bobby only rolls his eyes when he drops a burning match into the bowl and mumbles: “I am so glad I have no siblings.”

“Bowl empty?” Michael asks after a while.

The man confirms it with a grunt and asks a question of his own: “Bowels empty?”

“Bobby, what?” Sam stares at him in disbelief.

“Sammy, you are crossing to a place between realities and there certainly aren't any public bathrooms there. You better go now because once you are there, you certainly won't have any time for such niceties, and it'll be hella awkward if the savior of the world comes back with went pants.”

If looks could kill, Sam would have to be charged with a double homicide, because besides Bobby, Dean also gets a glare. But Sam's brother is very obviously not smiling.

On the other hand, it's a reasonable suggestion, so Sam disappears outside for a while. On his way back he mindlessly pockets an apple from the basket by the door. You never know when you are going to need a snack.

He returns to find Michael to be the very picture of impatience. “Oh, here you are,” she beams at him. “Wonderful, wonderful. Off we go. Remember, Dean, once we are on the other side, you just have not to die and we will be able to follow with Samuel here back through the blood-bond. If my horrible brother Lucifer gets here, then we have failed, all is lost, and you both will be dead soon as well, so you don't need to worry about anything.”

“Are you usually that morbidly cheerful,” Dean ponders, “or is that the caffeine high?”

Castiel looks up from where he is preparing the ritual of opening which seems like another pentagram in a circle with a bowl of offerings in it. The angel has chalk on his fingers and some even on his nose. “Is it really imperative to know?”

“No, I suppose not. Good luck.”

“We are going to need it in great supply,” Castiel confirms grimly. Then he sets the bowl of offerings ablaze and extends a waiting right hand behind his back. The ceremonial knife used for the ritual of bonding flies into it as if pulled by a magnet. Castiel warms the blade in the fire until it glows cherry red and then cuts the air in front of himself.

There is a hiss and sharp ozone smell in the air as a rip in reality opens.

Sam takes each angel by hand, Castiel on his right, Michael on his left, and the three of the walk through.

“Now what?” Dean asks, not really expecting an answer.

“I suggest we start praying,” Bobby shrugs and sits down with a bottle of beer. It might take some time and he isn't going to wait all of it thirsty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If all goes well, the next chapter will finally get to why I am writing all of this. Cheers!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam, Cass, and Michael go fight Hastur to a place that by all rules shouldn't exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter posted as of 22nd October of 219 this is the longest fic on my AO3 account (surpassing The Long-Awaited Sequel with it's 21K). I think it's safe to assume that this no longer counts as a parody or a trash-fic and in fact I am taking this seriously. Whoops.

It should feel like something. Anything. There should have been resistance a strong wind or some fabric to push against, there should have been a flash of light or a sound. There is nothing like that. Walking through the rift is just like walking through open door with the exception that Sam doesn't know what is in the other room until he enters.

Without a doubt this has to be the Between. It looks like a patch of ash-covered land in the middle of black nothingness. Sometimes a lighting crack appears in the black nothingness accompanied by murmuring whispers and then closes immediately. From that, Sam corrects his observation: The Between isn't in the middle of nothing, the nothing covers it like a dome.

The only crack the remains is the one behind their back and the one at the far end of the Between place. The illumination is shitty in here and had Sam known that, he would have brought a flashlight. Still they are able to make a raggedy figure standing at the other crack to a different reality. It is quite safe to jump to the conclusion it's the infamous and until recently never heard of Duke of Hell called Hastur, code name Yellow.

That also means that the Between is not a small place, despite being in existence for only a short period of time. “Since yesterday evening, actually,” Michael notes on that topic. She squeezes Sam's hand, but he writhes free. He had to hold the archangel and seraphim to bring them safely here, but now there was no need for any sort of physical contact. Castiel let go of him the moment they have set their feet on this ashy land.

They would run after Hastur, but the ground isn't exactly solid, so they more of warily walk in a menacing manner towards the demon.

Hastur has his back turned towards them, his fingers are toying with the hem of the rift, but for some reason he is not bale to reach through it. He hums, he giggles, he curses and shrieks seemingly at random, desperate wailing replacing amused laughter only to be all of sudden cut short with thoughtful silence.

Only when the trio gets closer they notice the source of Hastur's trouble. It is a thin red string crossing the rift, keeping it sewn together. The long thread doesn't glow and shine but it shimmers when the weak light falls on it in the right angle, making the blood red shine like rubies at sun or rich red wine held against a candle. The ends of this string are flying loose in the Between and when Sam tries to trace them, he notices they form a tangled web on the walls and ceiling forming and very fine and almost invisible cage. Only when he know that he is looking for it, he is able to see it.

“Hastur,” Michael speaks coldly, “what do you even think you are doing?”

The demon turns around only slowly, but once he sees them, his complex expression rearranges itself to one of hysterical rage. “_You,_” he points an accusing finger at Michael, “it's all your fault! _You_ told him about those two! You made him go! _You!_”

Michael gulps and takes one step back, but she has a blade in her hand just as quickly as Hastur. The archangel has her own archangel blade, quite predictably, Hastur has what Castiel he previously called a soul carver.

Before Sam has the chance to ask what that was about, Hastur attacks and Sam isn't badly cut only because Castiel slams him down. Luckily for them, the demon seems to be too focused on the archangel to pay them any attention in the moment.

“Somewhere in here must be Bobby's soul,” Castiel whispers to Sam with nearly tangible urgency. “If we find it, I can free it and send it to Heaven. We do not have time for anything more elaborate. Those two will not be fighting on forever.”

Sam looks around and then his eyes spot an object akin to a dying star. “What about the soul carver stabbed at the root of the rift?”

Castiel follows Sam's gaze and then bolts for the weakly glowing skinning knife. The moment he removes it from the rift, however, the ground begins to shake. Hastur might be occupied for taking revenge on Michael for whatever, but he does notice this and the next thing Castiel knows is that the demon is now all over him, trying to get the soul carver with Bobby's soul back all the while they each are trying to kick the other one's stomach out.

Sam picks himself up on shaky legs, his attempts at balance are only half successful with the earthquake going on. He cannot join the fight on Castiel's behalf, because he could hurt the angel by an accident as much as he could stab the demon on purpose, which is not something he wants to risk right now.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do. He takes a breath, does his best not to cough due to all the ash, and begins to recite the exorcism. It takes a great focus not to loose his words with all that is happening around him, but when Hastur notices what is going on, it is already too late for him.

Except when the demon looks up and behind Sam from where he and Castiel have rolled to, his ash and blood covered face cracks in a grin and he bursts out in a laughter. He is still laughing as his head tilts backward and a trail of black smoke, nearly invisible in the darkness of Between, shoots out and disappears towards Hell and the body collapses on the floor. Whoever Hastur's host was, he's been dead for quite some time if the maggots crawling out are anything to judge by.

Sam breathes out in relief. His mood, however, is quite ruined when he notices Castiel horrified face. He turns around to see what the angel is looking at.

Michael has unnoticed by all walked to the rift at some point during the exorcism and cut the binding read thread with her blade. The fact that the red thread is flickering in flashes of bright red is Sam's last concern. What has him more worried is the fact that someone is walking in through the opened rift. Michael takes a couple of steps back to greet the newcomer as the rift collapses.

Samuel Winchester finds looking at his own face. There is a scar going from his left cheek all the way around the eye and disappears up in the hairline. This Sam's hair is much shorter than his own and whoever the barber was, they deserve something terrible happening to them. Considered that the other Sam has bright red glowing irises, something terrible has most likely happened to the barber indeed.

This is Lucifer. Sam really hoped he wouldn't see the fallen archangel again, especially not like _this_.

“Hello brother dear,” Michael smiles wildly. “Oh, don't look at me like this, Castiel. I have told you all plainly that I am in this for the stabbing, haven't I? Still have this one on my bucket list. Don't act so surprised.”

“But Bobby-”

“Oh, it's all Bobby this, Bobby that,” Michael groans as her eyes never stop watching Lucifer. “That man isn't really worth my time. But since it's you and you've been nice, here.” She makes a complicated gesture with her hand and points it towards the soul carver which Castiel is still holding.

The soul trapped within is freed. The glowing specter briefly takes on Bobby's face before smiling at Sam and Castiel and bolting upwards where it disappears like a firework.

“I have killed you before, Michael,” Lucifer speaks softly. “I am going to have so much fun doing it again.” Then he throws a blow. It connects with Michael's face and sends her flying solid six feet backwards.

The fight between the two archangels is vicious, fueled by pain, vengeance, and hate. It soon becomes clear that whatever world this Lucifer came from, however, he is more used to fighting than Michael is. In another words, Michael is _losing_.

“We have to help her,” Castiel mutters before joining the fight on his sister's behalf. He is tossed aside, but that does not stop him from trying again and again and again. Sam joins him in the second attempt and find himself wrestling face to face with his own body.

Lucifer might have inhuman strength, but Samuel has Aziraphale's ring which might not give him power, but supplies him with enough endurance to brush off Lucifer's blows. When Lucifer pulls out his blade, so does Sam. And unlike Lucifer's, Sam's angel blade is lit by a bright holy fire the moment he wraps all fingers around the handle.

That forces Lucifer to reconsider his strategy, suddenly Sam has become a threat and he has to be deal with now. Still laying on the ground, he pulls the human close, taking an iron-clad grasp of his right wrist just so Sam couldn't hurt him.

Sam expects pain and he is not disappointed. He doesn't expect it from behind. Beneath him, Lucifer fills with light which at first shines through and then collapses inside as the fallen archangel dies. Sam himself feels a burning sensation through his body, shortness of breath, his vision fading from outside in. He turns around, it hurts like a bitch because he has his chest pinned to Lucifer's, to see Michael standing above the two of them with an expressionless face.

“I told you,” she says as she pulls her blade out. “I was in this just for the stabbing.” And those are the last words Samuel Winchester hears before he dies. He doesn't even have enough time to remember that Castiel told him so.

Michael, who has her wings still intact, teleports away. Both death bodies, both Sam and Sam-who-was-Lucifer's, have fallen to dust almost instantly upon death.

That leaves Castiel alone in the collapsing Between, quite devastated by Michael's betrayal and Michael's death. He tries to think, even though it feels hard and impossible. He needs to get out. He needs to tell Dean what happened.

At some point he had fallen to his knees, not sure, when, so he stands up and searches for the rift he came in here through. It's far, far away, and the with Sam gone there is no blood bond holding it stable the rift is closing very quickly. The ash stirs in the air like the snow in blizzard and Castiel blindly stumbles towards home.

He hopes against all hope that he might make it. He feels to weak and this place will fall upon itself. It is shrinking, which means he has to cross only shorter distance, but once the walls fall on him, he will be trapped between realities forever. Already he feels the nothingness closing upon him. It will hit him at any moment and he isn't even close. He closes eyes and braces for the worst.

The worst doesn't happen because the red thread lining the walls of nothing holds it in place. The same red thread holds the rift open still for him. In places it is caught on his coat, in his hair or on his skin. Castiel doesn't question this and jumps through the rift.

On the other side, Dean and Bobby stare at him, because he looks like shit – covered in ash and blood. The red string by Castiel's side begins to glow strongly and forms itself into a shape of a man. Then indeed a man appears, his face is very familiar.

Just before falling face flat to the ground, newly materialized Crowley opens his unseeing eyes and then he says: “Oh._ Fuck._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you aren't mad at me at this point, I did something wrong, I'm afraid. Yell at me in the comments?


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a list of things he needs to do: Deal with Sam's death (again), ask Crowley what the fuck is going on, and finally decide what to do with the King of Crossroads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <s>Crowley Crowley Crowley Crowley Crowley!</s>  
Do you know the Lucifer series? Like Supernatural, it's nothing I would consider great, but like Supernatural it's quite watchable and has its better-than-good moments. I'm bringing it up because as of now it is the only show I know of that doesn't tick off my pet peeve of "Why the heck don't you all get a therapist?" which I have with basically every other show.  
Seriously, Supernatural chars. You need a therapist. And the people who watch this show (and read this fic) need to know that it's okay to see a therapist.

Crowley wakes up visibly sore and with a groan. He manages it to a sit before he opens his eyes and analyses the situation.

Dean, Bobby, and Castiel all return him with a bleak look. They have strategically placed their chairs around the couch on which Crowley has been snoring for the past four hours that the demon can't look at more than two of them at once – either he sees Bobby and Dean or Dean and Castiel, but he can't get all three of them into his field of vision. Not unless someone lets him out of the demon trap anyway.

“Well, good morning,” Crowley tries to play it off with a pinch of humor. “I know I am a bastard and you don't trust me, but really, you shouldn't have gone at these lengths just because of me. Is that holy water in your water gun, or are you-”

“We're the ones who are asking questions here, Crowley,” Dean doesn't even let him finish, because of course that's holy water in his water gun.

Crowley automatically fixes his cuff links and cravat and with quite a puzzled look on his face he finds out that he isn't wearing one and instead of it he is sporting a bowtie. That is for the first time when he considers his overall attire – black coat, charcoal waistcoat, soft gray shirt, polished loafers and black suit pants. Dean considers it actually stylish and quite dashing, but Crowley for some unspoken reason is strongly dissatisfied with his outfit.

“Can you tell us what the hell happened?” Bobby feels like if they are making it an interrogation, they should actually ask something.

“No.” Crowley considers the plastic yellow gun shape Dean is pointing at him and feels the necessity to elaborate: “I would tell you if I had any idea. But as it is, I actually quite hoped you would explain to me what is going on.”

“So it's not your fault, then,” Dean concludes.

Castiel is looking at Crowley as an angel who is _this_ close to going on a smiting spree.

“A lot of things are my fault, but whatever this is, I sadly cannot take the credit.”

Finally Castiel speaks: “Samuel has died.” Bobby and Dean has already been briefed about it so they manage to keep poker face, but Crowley hasn't and so he flinches.

The demon is quiet for a very long and awkward while and when he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and cracked: “I am sorry to hear that.”

Dean and Bobby take turns in explaining the whole deal with Hastur and Michael and finally Castiel has to explain what happened in the Between. Crowley is all ears and doesn't interrupt them until the angel finishes talking. And only then it is to note that Michael is a wanker.

Bobby addresses the elephant in the room: “How comes you came back? We've thought we've seen the last of you?”

“Oh, terribly sorry to shoot your hopes down there. After all, I am the King of Crossroads, never stopped being one,” Crowley smiles and rubs his beard. “If I make a deal and the other guy bails out on me, I want a refund and you can be bloody sure that I get it. I gave my life in exchange for the promise that Lucifer would never cross through a rift... And when this promise was obviously broken, I've got my life back. Easy as that.” The smile indicates that it is in fact far more complicated than that, but that the explanation wouldn't be worth it. “Not exactly how I imagined it happening, but here I am all the same.”

Bobby gets up to get himself a beer which breaks the seriousness of the moment.

“How's my bookshop doing?” Crowley asks Dean after a while when the silence becomes too awkward. “I hope you've got it, there's no one else I'd trust more with it.”

“We've cleaned up a bit, it got dusty in there. Why not give it to Anathema? She seemed the book type to me, she'd appreciate it more.”

Crowley scoffs: “She would write in the books. She has no respect for them. No, they were safe with you, I believe, and you could have put some of them to good use, regarding your line of work and all that.”

“We only got it a month ago or so. Some legal difficulties,” Dean shrugs. Crowley doesn't dignify that with a comment, but he chuckles at that at least. “I at least am all for giving that place back, but there are two troubles with it.”

“And those are?” Crowley looks interested.

“The first is Sam. He's borrowed a book-summoning ring and a blade from the shop and brought the to the Between. Either they got stuck there or they've gone with Sam to... wherever he is now. Billie's told me that brother and I would go to the Empty to finally stay dead for once the next time we die, so I suppose they might be there.” Dean's voice goes flat, he is trying to detach himself from his brother's death as much as he can, and he is failing it spectacularly.

The ex-King of Hell doesn't seem bothered by it even in the slightest, however, so Dean continues: “The second is we aren't letting you out of here without someone watching you.”

Crowley makes a face of a kicked puppy: “I've always known you don't trust me, but I have never realized that it has gone so far. I thought we had something going on. You hurt me, Dean.” He is overplaying it for a comical effect so that it wouldn't be taken seriously, which is how Dean figures out there is more truth to it that the demon would like.

“Well, I have good news for you,” Dean says cheerfully as he picks up a knife and squats down on the floor next to the demon trap. “I am not going to hurt your heart because it's not because of that. But you rather brace your ego, because it's going to get to get quite a blow: We've ruled you out as a suicidal and have agreed that you shouldn't be let to your own devices.”

“Oh.” Crowley watches as Dean destroys the paint-made demon trap by scratching off a part of it with a knife. “Yet, you let me go nevertheless?”

“Yes.” Dean gets up, wipes off the flakes of dried paint into his trousers, and leaves for the kitchen.

Crowley isn't getting up from the couch. “There is another one around the whole house, isn't there?” he asks in the tone most parents ask their child why they broke little Jimmy's toy car in daycare.

“Yeah,” Bobby nods. “I didn't get a better idea so far. Found you a guest bedroom, though, so we could at least try to get along. Balls, I tried to get along with Michael and her constant coffee trash she's been leaving behind.” He follows after Dean.

Now it is only Castiel and Crowley sitting in the room, the first staring at the latter, and the latter watching the floor, lost in thoughts.

Eventually the demon looks up: “What?”

Castiel moves closer until he is nearly face to face with Crowley. The he hisses: “What have you done to Aziraphale?”

Crowley tries to pull away and sinks into the couch backrest. “I am sorry, I don't believe I quite follow you, angel.”

“Principality Aziraphale,” Castiel's voice trembles with anger despite the fact the seraphim is only whispering. “He served Heaven on Earth and the bookshop used to belong to him. What did you do to him?”

Like all angels, Castiel can choose to know when people are lying to him. Unlike every other demon, Crowley was forced to become very human. Is it human enough for Castiel? Does he want to risk it? And how much is Castiel sure of his ability?

Crowley's eyes become the demonic red which is so distinctive for him. He locks the eye contact and then he says: “I took him apart, a piece by piece, and I burned them all to a crisp. I forced him to watch as I did it. And then when I was finished with that... Then I killed him in cold blood.”

Castiel's face is unreadable. Then he pulls away with a quietly spoken: “I thank you for you honesty.” He gets up and leaves baffled Crowley alone in the living room.

“What was that about?” Dean asks the angel in the hall.

“Aziraphale,” Castiel answers simply. “I have two statements, counteracting.”

“Need someone to share it with?” Dean offers a kind listening ear.

Castiel waits until Crowley passes them on his way outside and the door close behind him. Only then he says: “I have asked Michael if she killed Aziraphale or had anyone to do it for her. She told me that as Aziraphale was formally responding to Gabriel who was hesitant of disposing of him, but he had been neglecting his duties and she is nowhere near as indecisive as Gabriel. In another words, she had sent someone on Earth to kill Aziraphale.”

“And Crowley told you what? That he killed that angel?”

“Yes.”

Dean frowns as his brain is trying to synthesize a coherent thought out of at. He comes up with a theory: “What if Crowley worked for Michael on that? It would make sense. We know that Crowley was after prophecies and Aziraphale had _Further Prophecies_. Michael could have promised him that in exchange. Maybe if she added something in as a bonus... After all, Crowley has never told us where he got Michael's lance from.”

“It certainly is a theory,” Castiel nods thoughtfully, although he doesn't sound convinced. He thanks Dean for his mindful input and goes out to check on the demon in question. This was bound to become an even more interesting household in the following days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked our local discord server bot via RNG whether this and the next chapter should be regarding Dean or Sam. Both answers were "Dean" (even though the next chapter is going to have only a very little of him), so I guess you'll have to wait to figure out how is Sam doing.
> 
> Could I please get some comments so my brain can process some serotonin out of them? That'd be dope of you.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is horribly bored, so Castiel gets stuck with taking him for a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a Hayako Myazaki's story-writing going around and it says something like this: If you have a story packed to the brim with action, all the heavy action gets boring and overwhelming because there is nothing else. Because of that you need to have moments where the characters just stop and watch the clouds for a while or goof around and have a pillow fight or just share a peaceful meal or something.  
So this is the "cloud watching" chapter. Although, there are no clouds.

Bobby has to admit that having Crowley under his roof is far more comfortable than having Michael here for the few days she has spent in here. Although everyone agreed that if Michael ever shows her face in here, she'd catch these hands or more probably a shot between the eyes. It wouldn't kill her, it would be just for the good measure.

It's been a week and so far nothing horrible had happened. Dean is coping with the loss of his brother by overworking himself. Castiel is... Nobody is exactly sure what Castiel is up to, he comes and goes as he pleases and usually brings groceries when he shows up. For a strange reason he took it upon himself to make sure there is always some leek in the household. Bobby does as his usual being the living encyclopedia and trouble solver while making moonshine and money on the side. And Crowley...

At first, Crowley sulks, but that bores him within the first two days. Then he tries to be helpful, but since he cannot leave the house, his help is very limited. Efficient, but limited. The less attention he gets, the more cynical and snarky he becomes. As the week comes to an end, Crowley goes on a cleaning spree and during the six hours he is left at the house unattended he organizes the bookshelves, sweeps in the cellar, sharpens all the pencils including the ones that got lost behind the counters and drawers, cleans everything and even polishes the silverware, folded tons of neglected laundry, mopped the bathroom, polished the mirrors, and even manages to get into Bobby's ancient computer and cleans the desktop. Although not even Crowley has the courage to open the _Downloads _folder.

Upon returning home, Bobby comes to the realization that Crowley needs to have something to do. So the three of them, Castiel, Dean, and Bobby, draw straws and Castiel comes out with the short one.

And so the next day Crowley is informed that he is going out with Castiel.

“Sure. Just to be clear, angel, it is not a date, is it?”

“No.” Castiel is quite confused by that question.

“Just asking,” Crowley shrugs. “That's how the humans phrase it sometimes. To go out with someone. The English language sometimes evolves in strange ways.”

Castiel concludes that it doesn't deserve an answer, and so he doesn't give Crowley one. Instead he takes a spade, digs it deep into the ground and move one patch of grass covered in paint from its place.

Crowley crosses the broken border of the demon trap and remarks: “If this is going to be a long-term arrangement, I should seriously propose to Bobby the idea of planting the demon trap out of some flowers. Such as chamomile. A very useful herb, this chamomile.”

They catch the bus to town. Crowley ties three more times to strike at least a little conversation, but all that Castiel has said was the name of the bus stop they are getting off at, and that was said to the driver, not to Crowley. Eventually the demon gives up and sits in silence and boredom, looking out of the window as the world goes past by them.

Their stop is very predictably the last one and Crowley describes the town square as the middle of nowhere. In theory he could run off the moment he sets his polished loafers on the solid cobbles again, and Castiel is aware of it, but he follows the angel on his way.

On the bus Crowley asked Castiel what the plan for today was, twice even, but never got an answer. As it turns out, the plan is to loiter around the town and perform the occasional good miracle or kindness. At first Crowley is having remarks but after a while he realizes that Castiel is simply not going to reply to him and he shuts up for good.

When the sky begins to darken Castiel stops roaming the streets and heads to the park instead. As they are passing the green plastic fence, a stroller with a loudly crying toddler, which has been standing besides the mother fully focused on her loud phone conversation, slips off the sidewalk and onto the busy street. The angel's reflexes are a bit too slow and he knows that he isn't going to be able to stop the stroller or the car in time.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to. The screaming baby and its vehicle roll back up on the sidewalk and the safety brakes clicks closed there.

Castiel turns around to Crowley who is looking all focused into the displaying window of the patisserie they have just been passing, but who also still has a hand raised towards the incident. The demon lowers his hand and straightens up his coat. “What?” he snaps.

“You have just saved a human child.”

“I've just made a loud mortal toddler a less temporary problem.” When Castiel only chuckles and shakes his head, Crowley adds: “Look, angel, I am_ bored _our of my mind, I thought that I could, I don't know,_ help _a bit, maybe? That no one would notice. You certainly haven't noticed until now,” he huffs and turns his attention back to the croissant on the display.

Castiel runs a review of the day through his head and comes out with two possibilities: Either Crowley is lying, which is very likely, or Castiel has in fact not noticed none of other's Crowley's interventions. He cannot rule out any of those possible answers.

They make it to the park and sit down on a bench with as much space between them as possible. People seem to sense the tension between the angel and the demon, because no one third sits in the free place they have left there.

Crowley has produced a nickel from one of his pockets and he is now rolling it between his fingers and making it go from palm to palm. While Castiel can always tell where the coin is, he has to admit, if only to himself, that he is impressed, as there is no reality-warping or magic involved. The level of manual dexterity Crowley performs is astonishing.

“I have a question,” the angel says after a while. It catches Crowley so off-guard that he drops the nickles.

“Out with it, angel.” The coin vanishes somewhere deep within Crowley's many pockets.

“The_ Further Prophecies._ Why are they written on CD covers, and why did you want me to have them.”

“Ah,” Crowley fidgets with his hands and bowtie. “Let's start with the latter part, that is the easier one. Angels are old about the same as the universe, and over that time you have attained a plenty of experience which mostly makes up for the intelligence almost all of you are missing. And you have spent a lot of time on Earth. I dare to say that out of all the angels I know of, you understand the humans the most. If anyone would be able to make the sense out of the _Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies_, then it would be you.”

Castiel waits. He doesn't have to wait long, as Crowley continues: “As for the CD's... I had the whole book memorized by heart, you see? But then...” He clicks his tongue and looks up at the sky with a frown, searching for the correct words. There is the feeling that they are hanging on a percipience, but Castiel wouldn't be able to tell you the percipience of what it is exactly if you asked him. “There was the Incident, well, it barely deserves the capital I. I won't bother you with the details, just know that I had a bunch of pissed angels coming after me, a friend of mine died, and the book got lost. Or destroyed, that I don't know. The point is that I no longer have it.”

Crowley takes a moment, speaking of that is very obviously making him uncomfortable, given how he squirms in his seat. Then he takes a deep breath and finishes the explanation: “For a long time the missing book wasn't a problem, but then I noticed I began to forget entire passages. And so I wrote down what I could remember on the nearest thing I had available. I'm sorry if you hoped for some dramatic revelation,” he adds with a smirk.

Out of the sea a words, one stands out in particular to Castiel: “A friend? You had a friend?”

The demon turns to Castiel sharply. He wants to say something hurtful, that much is visible on his face. Lashing out in self-defense. But he refrains himself from doing so. Instead he lets all the air out, slowly. “Yes,” he says finally, voice all quiet and slightly shaking. “I had a friend. He was the most selfless, caring, kind and intelligent person I ever had the chance to know. He had the tendency to grow attached to people.” Crowley smiles. It is a sad smile and his eyes are glistening with something he would definitely not describe as tears. He turns to the angel: “You remind me of him sometimes.”

After a while of awkward silence which not even the cicadas dare to interrupt, Castiel says: “If it is alright by you, I would like to visit Aziraphale's bookshop.” It is not alright by Crowley, but they visit the place nevertheless. The demon even provides the transport, since he can teleport and Castiel cannot.

In London it is early morning. They appear in the bookshop kitchenette. Castiel is free to roam at his leisure while Crowley desperately wishes to be anywhere else and makes himself a cacao.

The angel moves through the bookshop quietly. He didn't know Aziraphale, angels rarely know each other much. They know of each other, however. Castiel wonders what would it be like if the two of them, Aziraphale and he, had met. If they could become friends.

He finds the one white feather with bloodied root, the one Dean had shown to him and Sam not even a month ago. Has it really been a month already? It seems like ages. Absentmindedly he puts the glass case with the feather into an inner pocket of his coat where it practically disappears.

Crowley catches up with him after he has drunk his cacao and washed (or maybe wished) the mug clean. “Want to head out?”

Castiel wants to head out. He is not sure how, but eventually they end up at a theater watching a play that Crowley promised to Castiel that he'd love. Castiel has never been to a theater before. At first, Crowley has the feeling that _Much Ado About Nothing_ has been a bad choice, because the angel is staring at the stage without any expression or blinking, but once they leave the theater, by that time it is late evening in London, Castiel says: “That was hilarious. Did the playwright write more of these?”

Crowley can only gawk in disbelief: “Castiel. That was written by William bloody Shakespeare.”

“Does that mean yes?” When the angel is informed that there are tons of other Shakespeare's comedies, he smiles and remarks: “I would love to see them one day.”

“What I would love right now would be to get hideously drunk.”

“I am afraid that I would stand out anywhere where I'd accompany you, but unfortunately I have been instructed not to leave you alone.”

Crowley's lips split in a wolfish grin: “Angel, this is Soho. Just on this street I can name you six places where nobody will notice you. Especially if we go _together._”

They return to Bobby's in America's late afternoon, both quite wobbly, heavily inebriated, and covered in glitter head to toe. Neither Dean nor Bobby have the balls to ask what the fuck happened to them while they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are clever and figured it out, but for the ones siting in the slower seats, having a bad brain day, and those who want a confirmation: Yes, Crowley and Castiel ended up in a gay bar.
> 
> Help my brain make serotonin, donate a comment now! It's free and you can rant at me about stuff!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is Sam doing in the Empty, whom has he met there, and what is going to happen to his apple?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks, I am sick. Which means I am stuck at home but also glad when I can make a coherent sentence in this language, not to mention spit out a whole chapter. Anyway, here is the promised Sam chapter.

Sam reaches the inevitable conclusion that he is dead, mostly because he remembers dying. He is no longer aching, not even from the stab in his back which is the last thing he remembers, which is at least a bit of relief. His senses kindly inform him that he is laying on something hard. He sits up and opens eyes. At first he isn't sure that he has done so, because everything around him is pitch black, but then he looks down and _yelps_ like a little boy.

Curled up on side right next to him is his own yet not his own body. Lucifer. The fallen archangel is not moving, not even breathing and his eyes are wide open and glowing the eerie red.

Very carefully Sam puts hand on Lucifer's shoulder to check... Not sure what exactly he is checking on, but the examination in general seems important. A slow rhytmic wood-like clapping can be heard from somewhere on Sam's left. It's speeding up. Sam with hand still on Lucifer turns his head to take a look.

He's gotten distracted. It takes a splinter of a moment and suddenly Lucifer is holding him by the wrist and looking directly at him. He grins: “I will –”

Sam never learns what Lucifer willed to do. Suddenly there is a heavy impact and it halfway makes him fly, halfway it pushes him to the right. Somebody plunged into him and together they tumble for at least ten feet or so.

Much to Sam's surprise, no fight follows, however. That certain somebody helps him to his feet and grumbles: “That was a bloody stupid idea of you to do that, what you just did, kid.”

It's a man. He is black, but compared to the empty blackness surrounding them, he still seems to be quite on the pale side. His overgrown curly hair, however, is so dark that at edges it seems to be just sinking into the ever present darkness. He's shorter than Sam, but then that's nothing unusual. He has a coat which once might have been fancy, but that had been decades, maybe even centuries ago. His irises are violet but they quickly fade to brown.

Sam turns around, but he doesn't see anything behind them. “Shouldn't we be running? I mean, won't he come after us?”

The man shrugs. “If you feel like a jog, sure, run your heart out. But with nothing to power him, old bossman won't be getting up any time soon. Why, I guess he's having a nice little nap.”

_Old bossman?_ Sam might be dead but his thinking is alright. “You are a demon?”

There is an eyeroll and a face is pulled. “No, I am the Virgin Mary herself and this is my choir of teeny tiny cherubs with harps and whatnot. Let's have a walk.”

The man isn't exactly giving Sam a choice to disagree, because he's taken him by forearm and is practically dragging him through the emptiness in a seemingly random direction. Sometimes they pass very life-like statues.

“Other demons. Or angels. They are all sleeping. Don't touch them, though, they'll drain you like a... Like something draining. A mosquito.”

Sam wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. Not again, anyway. He is a bit too intimidated to ask questions so he keeps quiet until shapes began to emerge from the blackness.

At first it's very vague, but then he begins to see trees, all gray, and grass, instead of eerie solid nothing there is dirt and leaves under his feet, occasionally a twig snaps as he or his companion step on it. Over their heads there is loudly howling wind, but the nature seems unaffected by it. If there were any colors, the place would be bright, but as it is, the myriads of blooms are dully gray and black and occasionally white.

They walk until they end up under a large tree. Sam isn't any skilled in telling fruit trees apart, but his guess a pear tree or perhaps apple tree, could be also a plum tree. He isn't focusing on the tree that much, though, because his attention is immediately drawn to the car parked under it.

Maybe it's the lack of saturation in this place which makes the color that way, but it's a black vintage Bentley. Sam doesn't guess the year, but definitely from before the second World War. It's in an excellent condition, and Sam knows about a brother of his who would give a right arm to drive it. Well, _someone's_ right arm for sure. Oh no, nevermind, the driver's seat is on the left, Dean wouldn't care about this car even in the slightest.

Sprawled on the roof is a man, dressed black and skinny, he's as white as paper, and has messy dark hair. When he sees them approach, he slides off the car and slithers towards them. He moves like a man with the wrong amount of bones, although Sam cannot tell whether it is an excess of bones or lack of them.

“Had a nice walk?” he grins at the black man, but all he gets in a reply is a grunt. “And you... The prophecssy saysss that you'd have an apple. It's absssolutely vital that you give it to me.”

Sam who absolutely has an apple in his pocket and still hasn't gotten around to eat it, gives it to the man. Then he takes a step back when he notices the yellow eyes. He is in the place where dead demons are, after all. Meeting Azazel was a serious concern. However, this man was shoving no sclera, or it was the same color of golden yellow as the iris, and had slit pupils. Add the hissing and you had a snake in a man's skin.

The snake man takes the apple and without any hesitation he proceeds to eat it, core and all. He wipes his mouth with sleeve and says: “Yes, that'sss much better. I haven't eaten in ages. Very well. Ssso, I guess you must be Samuel Winchester then? The last time I tried to get an apple out of a guy Duke here has dragged in it all went rather awkward, let me tell you.”

Sam is a bit confused. He decides that maybe now is the good time for questions: “Excuse me but –“

“Right, right,” the snake man waves his hand. “Loads of questions. That old grumpy over there, that's the Grey Duke of Hell, currently deceased, we think that I killed him, but honestly neither of us really remembers. I am the Serpent of the Garden. There were actual names, mind you, but... Memory is a complicated thing, I'll get to that. This place is the Garden. Things come here to be forgotten.” His hissing has gone now, how interesting.

The Duke groans. “Does he need to know all of that?”

“Well he'd ask all of that anyway!” The Serpent throws his arms in a wide gesture of overplayed despair. “I thought I'm saving us the time.”

Sam clears his throat. “What do you mean by coming here to be forgotten?”

“It has to do with the structure of the Empty, which is where we are. Time here... doesn't move in a linear way as in any other dimension, instead it makes a sort of vortex. The Garden itself is placed far from the center of the Empty, so time moves quickly here. It prevents you from succumbing to slumber like all the lot I'm sure you've passed on the way here. But it also means you are far from wherever you've come from, so you are already fading from that place's memory. The Garden is the furthest you can go safely; further than this and everyone would forget you and you'd disappear. Here you have the certainty that at least one person will keep you in their memories, that in one book your name will be written.”

“Is that why you don't remember your names? Because you have forgotten yourselves?” Sam asks cautiously.

Both the Duke and the Serpent nod, hesitantly at first, but then they conclude there is no point to hide the truth, so they reluctantly add varieties of “Yeah, more or less, exactly.”

“Alright.” Sam does his best to take it in. He's been dealing with stranger things, some time vortex in the Empty can't screw his brain over. “Now, what were the prophecies you've mentioned, Mr. Serpent?”

Serpent shows him a canvas bound book which he's been carrying under his leather jacket. The book has no title written on it. “_Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies _as told by –“

“By Agnes Nutter, the witch,” Sam wills in.

“Somebody's done their homework,” the Duke hums and his eyes shift to green.

“I had all the time with the book,” the Serpent smiles, “brought it here with me. Old good Agnes says that you are the ticket home for the three of us if you get enough fuel.”

“You can get me out of here?”

“We can get ourselves out of here if we work together,” the Duke corrects him grimly. “You, Sam, are the key. I am the power. Serpent is the map. After all, he is of the Garden, and this is the Garden, innit? What are you waiting for, human? Get in the car.”

Sam sits shotgun, the Duke huffs in the back, and the Serpent is their getaway driver.

“_43,_” Serpents hisses as he reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a pair of mirrored sunglasses. “_At which hour the three uniteth in the garden and the monarch hests yond the playeth mustn't beest ceased, the Serpent of the Garden, the Grizzled Duke, and Samuel of letters shalt crosseth from the void to the road of the Dragon in the horseless carriage, their passage forged in blood._ There should be some CD's under your seat. Play some music,” the Serpent slips the demand is as an afterthought.

The engine is turned on and the car proves that despite having its years it still has it where it counts the most.

Sam remembers something important about the Further Prophecies as he is trying to reach at least one CD. As he wrestles the disc out of its plastic case, it's The Best of Queen, he asks: “Sorry, are you an angel?” He has to shout, because in the for moments they have been driving, the wind has gotten much stronger.

“Don't be ridiculous. We're both demons. Although, we were angels once,” the Duke huffs. The tips of his fingers are glowing and in the rear mirror Sam sees that his eyes are changing colors rapidly and independently of each other. That also means that the Duke sees Sam's confusion in turn. “Sure, they'll tell you that demons are just tortured humans. That's just propaganda. Although, not sure _whose _propaganda.”

If he is in a car driven by a demon and powered by another demon, Sam should make some insurance that he gets out of it alive. Or at least less dead than he already is. His seat belt clicks closed just as the first tunes of Show Must Go On begin to fill the car.

A beaming white circle not that far in the distance suddenly makes itself known to them. The car speeds to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A personal headcanon of mine: the Dukes of Hell have each a colour assigned. Hastur is the Yellow Duke, since his name is taken from Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos where he is also called the King in Yellow. The Grey Duke is Ligur to whom I gave the colour for the irony of the fact that in the show his eyes and his chameleon keep changing colours. Just so you know where the title came from.
> 
> Donate comments, trick my brain into producing some extra serotonin to keep me going :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's Stop Hastur is a private party, and Crowley and Castiel aren't invited. Today's weather has been brought to you by two dead demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are approaching the end, which at such a long fic (the longest I have ever written), is unbelievable that we are nearing the finish at all!  
I reserve all rights to add one additional chapter if the next one has its words spilled over the top and becomes too lengthy.

According to the Further Prophecies, or at least the bits written on various CD's, they have half a year before they face Hastur again, or that is at least what Castiel has explained to Dean. Crowley helpfully adds that it has to be somewhere along Route 491, probably at the border between New Mexico and Colorado.

“I suppose that it's lost a lot of its appeal when it was re-numbered in 2003,” he points out while he is chopping something in the kitchen with a large knife, “but it's still remembered as the Devil's Highway and Agnes specifically refers to the Devil either as the Beast or the Dragon.”

Bobby suspiciously eyes the plate Crowley has brought in. Over the three weeks Crowley has spent here, he has learned not to question the demon's cooking much, but when you are presented with rice blobs with raw fish wrapped in something green and rustly, you cannot be _not suspicious_. On the other hand, cooking was something Crowley was both very competent at and more than happy to do, especially after he had a look at Dean and Bobby's choice of dealing with the problem. Cooking was also time consuming and one of the few things the demon refused to simply wish into existence, so it always meant that he'd leave everyone alone for at least thirty much needed minutes.

There were jokes about Hell's kitchen. The past tense is important, and since then Dean's forearm has mostly healed. He doesn't even have to wear the sling anymore!

As Bobby reaches for the BBQ sauce to give the rice at least some flavor, he asks: “And how did you come up with the border?”

“A bit of psychology, and geographical and occult knowledge.” Crowley can be barely understood, because he is speaking through gritted teeth. Dean and Castiel both at the back of their minds are starting a bet with themselves whether Bobby realizes that both BBQ sauce neither ranch dressing belong on sushi, or whether Crowley flips the table before that. The tension at the table is strong enough to rival the one between two tectonic plates just before an earthquake.

Everyone watches as thought in trance as Bobby stabs his sushi with a fork and munches on it. Crowley abruptly stands up: “Excuse me, I think the pie needs my immediate attention.” And he disappears to kitchen. A moment later there is a series of very definitely metallic _shliiiing-thud_ sounds which is exactly the sound a knife makes when a very frustrated demon with a very good aim throws it at a wall at the far end of the kitchen.

That's the fashion in which the life carries on in the followings months. There are good days. There are bad days, but they could be worse. There are days when Dean stares at the photo of his brother he carries in his wallet and finds it hard to call the face familiar. On the days it bothers him, it's good, but sometimes he is worried about the fact that the face in the photo doesn't ring a bell and he thinks nothing of it. Eventually he winds up carrying crumpled paper notes with him that all say this: “Remember Sammy Winchester.”

There is that fortnight which starts with Dean getting drunk and crying his heart out about how much he misses Sam. Much to his morning embarrassment, everyone remembers it the next morning and nobody treats him like a whiny ninny for it. On the contrary, even. Crowley moves them to London where he spends the fourteen days buried in the books, trying to find something they could do. In the end he brings them this conclusion: “There is only one way to the Empty, and that's dying. And you aren't getting out without a divine intervention, a lot of luck and prayers, the whole lot of Hell backing you up, or the combination of the aforementioned.” So in the end they still have nothing, only some nice memories of England, a horseshoe from a gravely misunderstood dullahan who has problems coping with the 21st century, and a tin box full of biscuits, definitely not cookies, from Anathema who has dropped by on Thursday.

As the half year term comes to its end, everyone begins to make preparations. Because nobody is sure what exactly they are going to be facing and the prophecies tend to be very vague about that, they prepare for everything just to be on the safe side. That results in a rather humorous moment at Walmart when the slightly concerned cashier asks Crowley and Castiel what do they need forty kilograms of Alpine salt for and the demon and the angel each give her very contradicting answers. She almost has them arrested for a felony, but is rendered immobile and out of breath by Crowley's magical spell: “Angel, stop questioning the wedding cake and just help me to get the salt out of here, would you?”

And then before they think they are ready, the day is there. The day of recknoning.

“Crowley, you are not going,” Dean mentions casually as they head to the car.

“What?” The demon is struck with disbelief knee-deep in chamomile. A chamomile demon trap is, after all, more friendly to the lawn than a paint one.

“I said you're not going.” Dean turns around as if that was obvious. “You'll see a knife and you'll run straight into it once you make a semi-valid excuse for why that's a good idea.”

“I still disagree that you want me to stay here to guard him,” Castiel murmurs, one step out of the demon trap. “I do understand your reasoning, Dean, but I am still of the opinion that I would be more of use to you in the confrontation with Hastur.” But he digs his heels in and watches Crowley as the demons throws cusses at them, lamenting at the human idiocy, Dean and Bobby's in particular, and wailing about the unfairness of it all.

The two humans leave in the Impala, slightly over the speed limit, because the world might be about to end, again, so they are in a bit of a hurry. Bobby is instructed to play some music. “Sorry, Dean, all I've found is this,” he waves a plastic CD case next to Dean's head.

“One of Crowley's?” When that is confirmed, Dean asks: “What does it say? They all have prophecies, so what is today's prophecy? I hope it's a good one. Could use a good prophecy.”

“Uhh... _755: Hark to me, cut-purse of names: three times thy brother shalt calleth thee a coystrill, and two times thee shalt repay him in kind. But for the third time, recall to whom thee owe the sooth. I desire thee hadst remembered thy cacao, because otherwise by anon it hast gone spoilt beyond all saving. _Coystrill is an old fancy word for a liar,” he adds in helpfully as the CD begins to play them all _The Best of Queen,_ despite its case clearly says it's the _Velvet Underground_.

“That doesn't make any sense,” Dean remarks and absently rubs his forearm which has begun to hurt. The winter wind begins to rise around them and Freddie Mercury has to really do his best to be heard.

They pick up that _something_ is going on when they cross the Colorado borders three hours ahead of the estimated time. Either the time is getting all wrong or the distance is. But according to Waze they haven't crossed the speed limit by more than five miles per hour at any point, neither they have skipped any section of the road. Bobby expresses the hope it's a good sign and switches place with Dean at the driving.

At this point Dean's left forearm hurts like a son of a bitch, a very frozen one at the top of that. He thinks the source of the pain is the scar left over by the bonding ritual, but he'd be lying if he said that he knows it for sure.

When they join Road 491 are nearing the border between Colorado and New Mexico, there are three significant circumstances surrounding it: Firstly, the road is empty, literally, besides them there is no car whatsoever. Secondly, they've managed to do the fourteen hours long ride in somewhat under six hours. And last of all, it's snowing violently all around them. It's snowing despite it's only early autumn. With the strong wind turning the weather into a gale, and with the ever-darkening sky, it's actually very hard to drive on. Thanks God – No, not God. Thanks someone that they are practically there.

When Bobby notices the beacon of light, he pulls over, and both Dean and he get out. Even with the time being on their side they are late, because already Hastur is there, standing in the middle of a very ugly circle of sigils painted in the snow with something dark. Blood, without a doubt. In front of him a crack of light is hanging in the air. Dean rushes to tackle him, but he is taken by the shoulder and yanked back.

“Oh no,” says an overly saccharine voice. “You mustn't interrupt him now, this part is crucial.” Michael smiles to Dean's ear.

“Michael?” Dean understands nothing. “Why are you here? Why are you helping him?”

“Oh, Hastur and I have a little catching up to the time. After all, I've spent quite some time locked in Hell and he hasn't. Turns out that the current Prophet, Donatello I think is the name, had at some point told Hastur that this is the way to get back a friend he and I have in common.”

“Who? Lucifer?”

“Don't be stupid, Dean,” Michael sighs and stops crumbling his shoulder to dust. “I couldn't care less for Lucifer. No, I mean _Ligur. _Not like that says anything to you. Now, tell me, where is your pet angel?”

Castiel, the angel in question has been resisting Crowley's attempts of various elaboration to let him out of the demon trap. There's been begging, there's been intimidation, there's been an attempt to trick the angel which the angel has so profoundly ignored that Crowley didn't even get to the Step 2 of his very complicated lengthy plan.

Now the demon is attacking the feelings: “For Satan's sake, Castiel, it's two humans against a Duke of Hell. They don't stand a chance! We can't just stand here, we have to help them.” When that doesn't meet any response, Crowley screams: “Why don't you let me to fight for the only thing that I am at least remotely capable to care for?”

It sounds sincere, but Castiel knows the demon to be an excellent actor. Slowly he reaches into his coat's inner pocket and pulls out a white feather in a glass case. Crowley freezes in place. “You are lying,” Castiel says for the third time in the past six hours. “You don't care for anything and anyone. You certainly did not care for your... friend.”

Crowley takes a shaky breath and it takes him a moment to recollect himself. “You're wrong, Castiel. I cared for him, deeply. More than you can imagine. More than I should have. It made me a liar, such a good liar that even I fell for those lies.”

He isn't looking at Castiel. He is looking at the demon trap made out of chamomile in front of him. Very slowly, as if he wasn't sure of it, Crowley makes a step forward. His foot crosses the line. The chamomile bursts into flames and ashes and Crowley's eyes hit the deep bloody red. Breathing heavily, he stands on the other side, leaving the house behind him surrounded by chamomile cinders.

Castiel cannot help but think that the demon should be looking victorious. But for some strange reason he looks like he has just lost everything.

“Well don't you just stand there looking all pretty,” Crowley finally snaps. “I thought you wanted to go as well.” He reaches a hand towards him.

Without thinking twice about it, Castiel takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the lines here are really script-worthy and if I had the budget to make this longer and more elaborate, you'd get the full banter of the "wedding cake with 40 packs of salt" scene. Unfortunately, I am doing this for free.
> 
> The next chapter is going to start with one of the most badass lines I have ever thought off. It would have been here, but it didn't fit in because of the sushi scene.
> 
> And as always: Feed me comments. I am on a comment diet.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reckoning. Or perhaps the War Of Rubber Duck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that I should've made a "the end is nigh" joke in the last chapter. But because better late than pregnant: The end is night, and this is the dawn.

The hair at the back of Dean's neck stand in attention and not only because it's bloody cold snowstorm all around him. Spend a few years around people who teleport all over the place and you'll knack a sixth sense for people randomly appearing behind you.

He turns around to find those two idiots which he has left at home. “Castiel, Crowley!” By the sound of it, Bobby is just as perplexed as Dean is, which is a lot. “What are you two doing here?”

“It's complicated,” says Castiel. In the exact same moment Crowley blurts out: “It's not his fault.”

Michael blinks in disbelief. “Crowley? Is that what you really call yourself?” She circles the demon who only smiles sheepishly and doesn't turn around to keep facing her. Once the archangel inspects the demon to her own liking, she scrunches her nose nose in disgust and adds: “Well, I suppose that you can't learn anything new, so you keep to this only trick you know.”

Crowley's smile is forced, that sort of forced smile which thinly veils lots and lots of violence. His voice has a strange edge to it as he casually says: “Yes. Speaking of that, where is my rubber duck?”

Dean and Bobby don't understand the reaction it gets: Michael shrieks in rage, lacking an articulation. Hastur for the first time during the stand-off acknowledges their presence, and he does so by jumping after Crowley armed with a soul carver. Can soul carvers even hurt demons? Judging Crowley's shift in behavior, they either can or Crowley doesn't know and doesn't want to find out whether or not they can.

Michael joins in the fight. Dean and Bobby would go help, but the combat is too fast paced, they can barely keep track with their eyes. Castiel, however, jumps in, because that seraphim has a chip on his shoulder as big as the collective American college student debt. The only problem is that whatever chip Crowley has on his shoulder, it's even bigger than Castiel's, and so he doesn't acknowledge the help and is trying to take both Hastur and Michael at once. And in turn, Michael and Hastur seem to have a personal vendetta against Crowley for some strange rubber duck related reasons.

Bobby hisses at Dean: “The ritual.”

Nothing more needs to be said, both men scatter and fall to their knees, displacing patches of bloodied snow and destroying the painted sigils. It doesn't seem to erase the crack in reality, however. All that happens is that it changes color from white to inky black, and now it no longer emits light but devours it. And to the top of it, Dean's whole arm now feels like on frozen fire and it gets worse the closer to the crack he gets.

It seems the fight has come to an uneasy end. In the middle of the road is standing Michael, her hair and suit both an absolute bloody disaster, and in front of her is Castiel, kneeling and with hands behind his head which might or might not have the connection to the fact that Michael is brushing the tip of her archangel blade against the low of his neck. They are both shaking and breathing heavily.  
On the berm is standing Crowley, surprisingly bruise-less, seemingly very calm except his eyes are glowing bright red. Pressed tightly to his chest is Hastur who is violently shaking from the shoulders down. He doesn't dare to share from the shoulders up, because Crowley is holding Hastur's own soul carver under his chin.

The two unlikely pairs are staring at each other, daring the other to make a move, respectively quietly pleading not to. Dean is reminded that all of them are either eternal or occult beings who have been gifted with a lot of patience and that this could take some time.

There is also one other thing. Bobby is first to notice it, but Dean follows soon afterwards: The air has cleared around them. The snowstorm raging through the night is spiraling around them. Not only this moment of relative calmness is the metaphorical eye of the storm, they are in the literal eye of the storm. Dean would be more bothered with how dramatic poetry bullshit this is if he hasn't noticed that at the center of this rather large cleared out area is the black void-like rift.

“It's your own damn fault!” Michael yells at Crowley. “Always deviant! Always so stubborn! Always so... so you! You should have died when I gave you the chance,” she growls darkly, “because now I am going to make sure this is going to be the most painful and wrecking experience you've ever –“ She doesn't have a chance to finish, because she gets ran over by a car going dangerously above the speed limit, considering the weather.

Only Bobby knows where the car came from, because unlike everyone else he hasn't been staring at Michael like an idiot when she began ranting a monologue, but kept his eyes on the black rift. The black car, Bentley 1926, came from wherever the rift was leading to. What is more impressive right in the moment the car went through, the rift has collapsed on itself and disappeared.

Castiel slowly stands up, still a bit shaken, because the car has missed him by a few inches. Crowley lets go of both Hastur and the knife he's been holding. Both falls to the ground, with a distinctive yelp in Hastur's case. Crowley doesn't care. He is staring at the Bentley with an expression Dean hasn't seen on his face before.

From where most cars have the front passenger seat, but this one has a driver's seat in the as the London license plate suggests, a lanky dark haired man rolls out. As the door clicks open, the last tunes of _Show Must Go On_ can be heard from the car's radio. The man says: “Well I want to see _you_ driving ninety miles per hour through a timestorm while six millenniums of memories is poured directly into your brain without hitting anybody standing in the _middle _of the fucking _road._”

He is followed by a black man from the back who seems just as groggy as the driver. “Bless it,” he spits out with the same intonation most people say “fuck everything”.

And at last from the front passenger seat... Sam gets out. He looks around and mutters something along the lines where the fuck are they. Then he notices his brother: “Dean!” Regadless of the snow he runs to hug his brother. He knees give up on him in the middle, though, so Dean has to do half of the running my himself. There is a brotherly hug.

“Sammy, what happened?” Dean wants to know while Bobby rushes towards them with Castiel fats behind.

Sam takes a deep breath and says out as fast as his mouth allows for it: “I've basically hitch-hiked two demons on their way here.”

Castiel frowns: “What two demons?”

A vague gesture towards the car. “The Gray Duke,” he points at the black man who is just helping Michael and Hastur to their feet and seems very happy to see them again, “and the Serpent of the Garden.” According to Sam's hands that's the tall lanky man who is just awkwardly exchanging glances with their Crowley.

The two demons walk towards each other. The Serpent lifts up his sunglasses, maybe to take a better look and then he says: “Angel, tell me that you didn't do anything stupid or reckless while I was gone?” (Castiel mouths: Angel?”)

“Alright. I didn't do anything stupid or reckless.”

“You're lying to me, Aziraphale.”

Crowley... Aziraphale? The demon in question throws hands. “You didn't say I couldn't do that. You wanted be to say I didn't do anything stupid or reckless. But in my defense, I haven't done anything that would be stupid and reckless at the same time. I usually had it though through.”

“Ungh. Whatever, angel. Anyway, I have your book. Here.” He presses the _Further Prophecies_ into his hands.

There is some awkward fidgeting with the book. “Yes, um... Crowley, about that whole _angel_ thing...”

Meanwhile Sam, Dean, Bobby and Castiel have walked over to them. “Sorry, but... Are you both named Crowley?” Sam asks while he is writhing his finger free of the wing-ring of book summonning.

Crowley-Serpent says: “Don't be ridiculous.” Crowley-maybe-Aziraphale is very pointedly avoiding looking at anyone. That's why he notices Michael and his two demons slowly leaving. The archangel looks back to them and frowns, but that's the worst she does. Then the trio sinks into the road. Maybe Hell shouldn't be visited in the foreseeable future.

Castiel tilts head to side and when he speaks, he navigates the words carefully: “I apologize for calling you a liar earlier. I've come to the realization that every word was true, only I lacked the context.”

“That's truth omitment. Good liars use it. Ah, thank you,” he smiles at Sam who gives him back his ring. “I hoped I could get it back eventually.”

“Looks like you owe everyone lot of explanations, Aziraphale,” the other Crowley mutters.

“Could they wait until dinner? I'm starving.”

“Sure. Let's do Ritz.”

“Let's not,” Aziraphale shakes his head.

Crowley looks a bit confused: “Why not?”

“Because I'd have to figure out how to get the Bentley across the Atlantic for that.”

The demon's eyes widen behind his sunglasses with the horrible realization. “Oh, we are in _America._ That explains _everything._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Se we've got ourselves three happy endings (Aziraphale gets Crowley back, Michael and Hastur get Ligur back, Dean and Bobby and Castiel get Sammy back, nobody is dead).  
I'm glad you've joined me on this wild ride which has been blurted out in the course of two weeks and some additional days. This story has gotten no editing whatsoever and I am not planning on giving it one.  
For interested parties I might shove in some sort of an epilogue where Aziraphale/Crowley explains what the fuck he's been up to, but you might spare me the work and read [A Tree Full of Monkeys](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088645) which has inspired this work (and to which a link is provided at the literal beginning of this story and which I mention every four chapters or so, either in notes or comments)
> 
> As always, comments are everything I get for this because I haven't got a Patreon or Ko-fi. So be good earthworms and gimme comments.

**Author's Note:**

> While the name of the story sounds suspiciously like a bird associated with the Ineffable Husbands (Aziraphale/Crowley), it is a reference to the reckoning at the end of this story which happens during a night in a snowstorm (gale).


End file.
